Lets **** again
this fair land, ***** so many times before.
She cannot cry out in pain
as we steal her innocence.
Take it...take what she has to offer,
care not for the ravaged earth you leave behind
while you earn another dollar.
Yeah, she can recover
but not in your lifetime or mine.
But why should I be bothered?
After all she was put here to provide

I’m looking at you-
Looking-looking-not.

I’m pretending I wasn’t staring-
Now I’m looking-looking-caught.

Fake Fake Fake
that's me
that's what you see
lighting up your computer screen
nothing but a phony
everything I say is baloney
anything to be seen
as the girl cranked out of the same machine
I steam
I scream
tears stream
I conceive

You believe.

a snake of tail lights blind my eyes
and my hands are blistered from crawling across glass
to get back to you
You are a God figure standing above me
a righteous saint
You're saying and doing everything you can to send me to eternal damnation
a purgatory of "maybes" and "thank you's" and politeness
I am not a push downer
an opinion-less extra
an empty brain drone
im a walled up mistress
no feeling having, numb as can be, teenage head case
I am 3am barefoot in the sand,
streetlight wearer,
shoulder in my mouth and tangled hair.
Im a "Breath doesn't mean anything if it isn't coming from your lungs" shunner
But what good am I?
I'm nothing but a mutation in a city of clones, new thoughts are gibberish if they weren't placed there by a higher power.
Can you even blink without it being set out before you?
eyelash plucked from a passing eye so you can make your wish
authenticity in a barbie house
a repeated phrase
"it all belongs to you,the world, it all belongs to you"

Sometimes she smells like roses and coconuts...

Everyday I bow to the eons and ions and atoms
within and surrounding her
for guiding me to the reality of which I enjoy being inside.

My life wasn't meant to be boxed into a 9-5 soul-******* vacuum office cube
trying to convince folks to buy bread with "homemade flavor" or fizzy brown corn syrup. That's how alcoholics are born.  

My living spirit is is supposed to play
like my inner child
at 2am smoking something
and waving to stars that might be spaceships
and singing songs to the silver moon.
I have to live like poetry in order to write.
Maybe not drink like poetry...
let's just say my time in Atlanta
might put Dylan & Edgar to shame.  

And she allows us to love like poetry,
our minds travel to soothing lands
where words mean nothing
and the only way to communicate is through sacred azure moans
of hyper-iridescent effervescent ecstasy.
That's what the truth sounds like.

I'm unchained,
back into the wild of myself,
unfettered from the confines
of a story or musical piece,
instead allowing my self and body
let the words and music play & write through me
like some fleshy electric with a hint of indigo flute fountain pen
so that others may know this glorious living that is poetry.

they apologized
to clear their
conscience
not because
they were sorry.