I feel I've found a home,
in this self-deprecating zone.
Like minded...
and I don't mind likeness.
Kites though,
I do like those.
Soaring without care,
but carefully full of direction,
directly diverging from our reflection.
The zenith of our spirit,
battered but full of its name.
See that's the beauty,
it still fights,
and takes flight,
though it struggles all the same.
Let it fight.
Let it stumble.
Let it rise from the ashes like a phoenix.
stronger for it's struggle.
My spirit will be a kite.
No lightning strikes my tether.
My spirit will be a kite...

...and it will defy the whims of weather.

The country is ******.

No need to stand on ceremony,
eloquency can take a backseat,
because the country is
F. U. C. K-ed.

The innocence of  your youth yells,
as it is mashed between the ******, gritty, fingers of reality.
The faces that entertained the nation,
now assess success by how many kids they've touched,
rather than how many lives.

Parasitic politicians nesting on their mother,
'de-mock-****',
mocking the masses
with two digits raised,
pass it of as a V.
For victory.
But wash away the Crocodile smiles,
and it stands for something a little less inspiring.
Violence?
Victimizing?
Misers of moneyless citizens,
sitting in,
a generation of tiny Tims,
because the oligarchy hordes,
the power and our sense.

The problem is we allow it.
Yeah the country is ******.
But so are we...
"Yeah but what can we do?"

Well...

Now you're asking the right questions...

I have forged my problems in cold grey steel,
unfeeling still, my reeling will.
Two to my mind:
One,
I hurt her...
and the other,
vice versa.
A forge full of regrets,
to temper my mind
with worry and upset.
Guilty for my mistakes,
problematic,
a blade I've made,
of panic.
Everything said
shimmers on the shining surface,
a reflective face,
that holds the feeling in place,
with a pommel of folly.
If I could,
I would take this weapon of regret,
that fooled you,
both, and steel myself.
Seppuku.

You brighten up my day,
like a lightbulb does a moth.
You illuminate my way,
so I can gorge myself on cloth.
You know that it's to you I flew,
you like to play your games.
But if I get too close to you,
I tend to burst to flames.

Sometimes for me,
grasping reality
is like dipping my digits into a bathtub,
full of fruit jelly...
The more I tighten my grip,
the more this
belly-filling preserve will slip
through my fingers.
I ponder this problem...
daydream or realdom

Then I realise
**** it,
I have a bath full of jelly now.

She's the kind of girl,
I'd worry about losing.
But she'll never know.

Sometimes I read poetry for a little reinforcement...
I'm not the only one with a mind like fine china.

Oh! The poet in me,
a werewolf is he!
He likes to come out
when the looming moon,
shines it's brightest beams,
down.
Awoooooo!
Down,
to disturb my daytime dreams.
Coaxing howls,
and whines,
injected with subjective lines;
predatory metaphor,
tapping at my chamber door!
Only hollow howls, to those
who don't hear the instinct growl
to this canine condition;
those who don't spend their days,
thinking, or wishing.
Predator of poetry,
prowling over prose.
A beast of the blue moon syndrome,
after the curtains close.