There you sit
Smug and sure of yourself
Silent yet snarky
Your wisdom, your worth
Your self-richteousness.

Why do I desire your
Acceptance, your favor
When you only have enough for yourself,
Only for those whom you approve of?

Here I sit, opposite of you,
of your self-created grace and glory,
looking at me as if I were the epitome of evil.
I don’t feel evil, just worthless in your eyes.

Why is your morality better than mine?
Why do you portray your holiness supreme
and mine as worthless and undesirable?

Why do you politicalize your faith?
I don't with mine, sweet Jesus I cannot fathom why you do.

The loneliness permeate down into the toes, walking along the sidewalk
The streets seem empty, vacant faces, hurried bodies avoiding the solace of a simple hello, their trifling stares stabbing at their incompleteness

Write pain only because the voice cannot verbalize it. We don't understand it. We don't want to
Trifling affairs taking us up, consuming us, completing us, then draining us
Walking life avoiding others, their daring greetings, their trifling

They, too, walk along the sidewalks and the gutters, getting tripped up on their own despairs Listen not to Dante's doom, that abandonment is futile
Futile fallacies, our trifling forays, our misfortunes
Street along, you masses, you unforgettable, delving into yourselves, forgetting

You cannot understand it, those trifling friendships
How do they compare to the miseries you trudge through, swamped in that which hold you back, slows you down, drowns you, chokes you

Your only connect is the carelessness of your incompleteness, contagious of complaints

That cracked sidewalk, tripping you up in its unevenness
Your shoes have rubbed out their souls, toes slamming their unending pressures
You feel defeated and oppressed. Yet you walk on

Why do you not just stop and rest? The lonely road does not end, it continues on and on unceasingly, its seasons one big blur
Year in and year out your days numbered as nothing but trifling affairs, your greetings to fellow walkers rare as encouragement from within. You have become swollen in refusing refuge from those that share that uncaring sidewalk
You balk at accepting a hand to take that lonely walk with you, it is just another pair of loneliness who seeks companionship, who only seeks to cease their own trifling affairs

Lend not your own complaints, but console and be consoled in the greeting of a walk together

**** and **** cute
My hot *** and catchy face
Until I open my mouth,
and ugliness pours out

The many deaths I have endured, I cannot even count.

My soul has dried and cracked,
hardened to the core.

My heart has bled dry,
shedding itself of all life.

My spirit has withered
into a small dry stump of nothing.

My courage has collapsed
and shed into a million pieces.

My will has fled and left me
feeling worthless and useless.

My joy has become no more
than a distant memory of better times.

These things, these drastic things, these horrible times!
I have made myself discouraged and downtrodden.
What can I do? What can I say? What things can I do?
These deaths, these dreary and antagonizing deaths!

My love of life has hunkered down in dismay and is crying.
My free spirit has fallen prey to heavy chains of doom.
And these many deaths I have succumbed to,
With no chance of recourse!

Trance me up, push me 'round and bring it down
Beat me a new song, pound it out, my soul to be bound
I am so wicked, so lost in your rhythms I can hardly breath
Chain me, cultivate me, give me your **** release
I am so hot for you, for your song of thumping sound

I can hardly contain my ears, my body is on fire
Push it, pound it, of your hotness I won’t tire
Your muse, your hotness I cannot pass
I wanna spank your sound

Push me to my new limits, pleasure me with your ingenuity.
Intellect my brain, pulverize my pain as I watch the world rot away
You ooze mastery, the rot of your rapaciousness, so succulent, so free.
Consume my head, feed my ears, ****** into my chest
Feed me your lust, your craziness, I am such a freakin' mess

Dance it off, sing it away, swing it 'round, I float on the ground
Your magic fingers, the smoothness of your beat, masters me
I need you, your fantasy is mine, I am yours
For now you control me

You course through my being, my chest thumps to your flashing sound.
Command me, consume me, do not let me go. Spin it, make me found
Your ethereal edge smoothes me out, makes me right.
I bed your music, my feet clap your fame, this night
But tomorrow when I wake, I will forget who you are.

Superficial salutations, polite insincerity beckons me to smile
Yet inwardly frown, indifferently my apathy towards you is unknowing
Yet you don’t care, walking on, not even looking towards who you greeted
I walk on wasting empty words, wasted thoughts

My mind is elsewhere, my thoughts cut off by my inept actions
The hallways, long and narrow
When do I make eye contact, when do I smile
Do I wave, or do I simply nod my greeting

I’m confused, gone are the ethics of caring, showing our true selves
Yet pretending
The masks we design and delve in, the wasted effort
Do we deign for attention, desire it

I would rather not talk to you, nor make communication
I know you don’t either
Yet, in our perfect word, our codified condescendence
Smile the mask, smile the task, uncaringly we mumble
Our hellos and goodbyes in one syllable sentences not skipping a beat

Savor the sweetness of bad poetry, the crooked and cockeyed words,
the lame and bumpy thoughts of oblivion
Skip out the jumbled rhythm, and just roll with it
The road is not smooth, the jargon misplaced
Swift the ****, pace by its carcass, caress your stiff neck, your strained eyes
the pen killed the message, the hands tremble in its confusion
It isn’t good, it isn’t sensual or soothing
It clumps in your throat, making disgust, flopping out of par
swing and miss, capture the drive, the stamina to make it through
Make the trudge, delve in the derelict
Can you make out the message, the theme?
or is it so bad you want to scream, or just cry from the injustice of bad lines
Do not line your thoughts in the flow, the swift, but let your soul sing the confusion of its blunted voice, let it bask in its commonality of bad taste
Do not pen out, but pen in
Do not bleep out, but bleat out
Scream your unworthiness, your crooked smiles, your cockeyed convulsions
Give us your bad poetry, God knows I have.

Bill keeps on calling asking for money
He laughs when I say no, and then demands me to lend it to him
He wants me to lend him his paycheck, the green to feed his family
Clickety-click, he receives my silence, the insult of my indignation
I only have enough to worry about my needs, not his
Why does he keep calling, paying me an unyielding hello?
Who does he think he is, insulting me into giving him his desires?
We just don’t seem to click, yet in the end, somehow we do

The room swallows its invaders, the forest green comforting yet crushing
Its comfort as hands cradling the softness of a chick, or boxing in the of the sow
She beckons to her captives, visitors unawares of her innards, her gut feelings
Even the ghosts crawl away in fear, their souls wandering the blanched out streets

Brick after brick, she hardens her heart, her eyes as windows to her boxed soul
Lending her comfort she messes herself, her contents spewed about like trash
Tidy up my mess of a life, count the bricks of my face, love me, hold me
The road to her majestic arms, the drive to her madness makes her swoon

She is not free, you can bank on that
She desires to roam, to live free, fresh air
But she has shut herself out, yet in she dives
As do her invaders, that forest green
How just grand, that room

Sing the song of sorrow, you peasants of popularity
Everybody hanging on your words
Dripping with yeses and pleads for your attention
They do not know the contents of your heart,
Your wish
Seeking those who say no and stand up to you
You begrudge those who dare not fight your words, those who sulk when you snap
Snap their feebleness, those lousy **** ups
Where are the real people, the true
Why must you be followed by groupies who refuse your invitation to fight, to bicker
To disagree
Do they not know your sorrows, your delights of ****** and throw
Your voice has become as a funeral drudge as you slowly die of boredom,
your soul withers as you wallow in pity,
your popularity as a magnet of fiends of friendship

Jump start my heart, blind my ego, I have searched high and low
Into the depths of gratitude, to the highs of indifference
I am not the winner, nor the foe
Slap me, punch me, call me out

I hate it when I refuse to be wrong, and hate you more when I am not
Laugh at me, **** up to me, I cannot lie my face away
My ego is starved for your laughter,  for your filthy rot
Sail the winds away, get out of my sight, I take my plight

Jack me up, turn me down, I am nothing but an ugly clown
I hide behind the wicked scene, languishing in the obscene
Punch me, slam me, bring me down
I am not the winner, curse this wicked frown

Poetry your soul
Feeble not in its message
Some may scoff, its transparency uplifting for you,
Disturbing for others
Allow them to voice their concern, their
Approach is not of malice
But approach your voice
With signature of your song

Wash the wind in your hair
The pages of your life shall not be of misery alone, not of endless mayhem and malignant madness
Do not feed your darkness, the essence of that will trip you and desert you. Sweet is the embrace of your bitterness, for now

Wash the wind as it passes by you, let in cleanse the darkness away, let it glide through your missteps, your unpleasant platitudes of pity
Good times come even on the darkest of times if you seek that which will ease your suffering
The home of

Delving in despair, has no bottom, no way out
Cry if you must, let your soul sing out.
Do not cry out hoping to be saved if you refuse to be consoled, to strive to work it out and overcome. It will not be easy, it is complicated and knotted just as tightly as your hatreds
Lighten your lives, cut the ties, free yourselves. Wash that wind.

Enslaved
Then freedom
From freedom,
Time burns into
Forgetfulness
Turned into
Apathy
Turned into
Slaver

The queen, the sparkling of her crown sheds light onto her station, she rises to the occasion, her glory your delight, her throne your admiration, you place her in high regard.
The queen, the heaviness of her crown, sheds tears onto her duty, she rises for your glory, for your delight, not for hers, for the throne’s chains hold her in place.

He looked out the window at the frost laden ground
and saw the spring's colorful delight,
blooming and brazen,
frozen in forever light.

Dead to the stalk, petals as glass
Sharp winds, you ghastly fools
Think that you could snap at spring like that?

My heart cries out in agony and pain,
the tears shedding across my face
as I try to wipe the sorrow away.

My **** eyes betray me
and cry out what my voice
has shut out.

I feel useless, worthless,
so empty inside.
I want to cry out in joy,
but I cannot.

If I did who would hear me,
who would find any joy in my heart that I cannot?

My heart cries out in a deep sorrowful remorse
that cannot be consoled. Is there really joy in there?

There would be less pain if I poked my eyes out.

Those **** eyes.

That sweet embrace.
That comforting hold.

So cold and distant,
yet burning with a passion
of a blistering fire.

It brings me tears,
not of tenderness,
not for its wild
and voracious appetite.

But because of the emptiness that I feel when I speak not its language.

Too long have I shut my creativity out,
refusing to sculpt my abilities, and instead
looking at my creativity as a waste of time and energy.

I have seen much time come and gone
since I last let my soul scream across an
empty canvas waiting to be woken up.

I must create.
I must live art.

My poor soul cries out for its life-blood.
Its cracked and jagged being
swoons to be heard, to be seen, to be felt.

Art is the language of my soul.

I don’t know what I would do
if I could not create,
to draw,
to paint,
to sculpt,
to write.

My hands and fingers
are the outlets of my creativity;
they allow me to put into shapes and images
what my soul is trying to get me to understand.

Without art I am heart broken,
as if my soul has been plucked
out of me
and a clump of nothingness
put in its place.

Why then, do I push myself away
from allowing my soul to sing?
Why do I become angry and limit my ability
as a form of self-punishment?
To what purpose does this actually help?

Without my art and creativity have I become a better person?
No, I have not.
I have suffered.
My soul has suffered.

I can no longer devalue my creativity
as a mere waste of time.

It is where my love sings, where my soul cries out.

Art is the language of my soul.
I pray I don’t forget this again.