Seeing the world fall
the people failing one another
I find solace in knowing
that even through life
we are more than chemical reactions.

Screaming through 3/8 inches
of the human skull,
longing for the rains-
over the empty manor,
Followed only by a sickening tapping.

How cursed is thought...

Words spreading across the page,
limitless in their power, yet completely
reliant on achieving one goal.
In failing, they seep into the paper
lost as more words steal the limelight,
shattered aspirations crack as they are trampled.

Dedication. Followed by forlorn drooping characters.
Did you ever know delighted letters could feel so mournful?
Who knew painting wilted whispers could dash the world
into so many pieces, darken the mind's playground?

Defenseless phrases left to rot in the molded closet
covered in dust. Blackness creeping over the ink.
Overpowered by the still air.

Being a writer is a curse.
Being a poet is a death sentence.
There is never enough words to fill the fountain,
even if the stack reaches the mold.

Seemingly lucid yet never seen,
A giant within humanity -
Dotted between initials.

The blandishment of all-
Without visualizing fragments.

Never staying for long,
Falling into bluest firmament-
Flying towards the abyss.

Left to wonder among crowds,
From a simple blueberry waffle
Comes the labyrinth of thought
Yet not trapped finally living.

Remember Victor Frankenstein-
his fault that transcends generations,
no, no, no not his desire my dear child,
hiding the daemons of our minds-
that is the real tragedy.

His heart told him to continue-
as if following the heart trumps the brain,
his skin crawling as his eyes widen-
gasping and panting with his heart.

Remember Victor Frankenstein-
watching his family disappear,
the secret hidden away- but so
what, remember Victor Frankenstein-

Victor Frankenstein is the template.

Finding ourselves sharing space and thought,
yet gaining nothing- for there is still a boundary,
the ideas locked away in the corner-
hidden from the other-
desiring oneness with the other-

Individualism never leaves,
but the allurement-
of having a mind to share,
a heart to hold-

Binding the mind for the sake,
of a manic heart.

But the knowledge is there,
though there is a together-
is there really a together?

Closing my eyes as I attend dreams,
I come across an iceberg.
I understand all-
I comprehend the unimaginable,
and just as suddenly I wake.

My eyes are accustomed-
there is darkness-
brightened by halogen lights-
an empty veil spied upon,
spoiled by the idea of....
something more.

There is a sea of I's
then there is just I.
Yet no one really notices.

Flowers are the souls that are falling apart,
wilting and blooming-
Their vibrant colors expressing emptiness,
showing the gaping hole in the fields.

Stuck in the leaves expecting change,
flowers continue to die,
but give it a moment,
the wonders we'll see,

The trees are crying,
the flowers are gone,
but suddenly a vibrant purple,
with a sea of gold,
the viola blooms,
and suddenly the empty field-

Is filled by you.

Welcome to the day,
a boring drag of thought.
Longing for breath,
as the brilliant Balius battles-
the remaining refugees, of the mind.

Welcome to the night,
the manor opens, the garden-
a parfum arises, the sepulcher looms
begging to be joined.
The grave of heroes
the sepulcher engraved-

Imagination.

Sorry no poetry today!
We’ll try again.

Weeks pass. Nothing to say-
is it not yet thought of-
sprouting, not yet budded.

We treat the sprout
the radicle deepens
budding begins
we have a seedling
on the rise.

This is the poem-
You sit there and wonder
what a wonderful change.
From ignorance of beginnings
to glorious realization:

The menthol Newport n our hands,
Orion overhead, dull street lights,
smoke from our lungs distorting the lake.
I wonder what it is like-
Like what?
how the world looks,
through your eyes.

I see playfulness
my imagination runs rampant,
merging realties to become-
surreal. I disrupt the compliant
by paving the roads with
trees of broccoli-

So that is your world-
we share the desire,
to glorify our imaginations
surrealism you say-
romanticism I suggest.

I have to tell you.
I do hate broccoli.

Poetry
We constantly deal with poetry which puts us in a soporific state,
we sit here apathetic to the cause of studying this beautiful art-
but Poetry’s breath Ad Nauseum about love and laments is bad for a date,
oblivious to the images, while attempting to turn the key we begin to depart.

Yet the door haunts us, novels, plays, yet poetry is the apex,
of this ethereal mystery within the maelstrom that is our mind,
alas this frustration is focused upon the conundrum of poetry being complex,
is it just a condensed novel, this Herculean Task of understanding the undefined.

There are many who deem poetry obsolete but tis rather far from its nadir,
now begins the unequivocally splendid power of the imagination-
hidden by poetry from the vituperative invader,
who’ve made an egregious mistake in deeming poetry a partial differential equation.

Imagination, oh what a beauty long forgotten in the age of reason-
we’ve been given Hobson’s choice, force fed Occam’s razor, given epitome-
yet good ol’ imagination persist like an excretion,
from the eyes of the true daughter of Time, Science’s proficiency.

People assume poetry is the modern day Gordian’s Knot-
well- let us assume this is Utopia, were Imagination runs wild-
as she watches her forest, a black cat surreptitiously passes a man in thought,
startled because it is Friday the thirteenth his Triskaidekaphobia acts up- this is all rather mild-

Just the tip of the iceberg was touched upon, just the tip-
Poetry and humanity is an oleaginous affair we mix but do not blend,
Or should we, poems are nothing more than what we put in, as if to dip-
just our toes, before we plunge head first into poems so as to apprehend.

Poetry is the Sun, as you are the flowers shined upon,
given warmth of knowledge and power if you are to just reach.
Not to let Poetry in as if to catch on-
give it back in your own form of speech.

Through your own imagination feed poetry,
It hungers for your reality, though not reality-
procrastinate not- hopefully,
for your conceptions are your sanity.

Or rather is fancy your faculty- decide,
it will affect your observation of poetry forevermore.
It will excite-
whether you believe it to or not- you will love or abhor.

Poetry is not arduous -
just do not assume there is a secret door.
In fact poetry is quite virtuous-
Seek only what you can give poetry, I do implore.

Come join me in irrationality,
The kind of mind that stares
into the corners of dark rooms.

Where my grey striped hoodie,
sits on my black chair just moments
ago. Stands the hooded figure.

The figure holds a Cheshire smile
ephemeral as the figure is, it haunts
for all eternity. Staring where the eyes
should be, it waves the cloak towards me, I wave back.

Turning on the lights and the hooded figure
whispers a silent goodbye. In the brief millisecond
the light reaches your eyes the smile slowly fades away
lingering long after it is gone. In that moment of infinite time
the hooded figure eats at my bravery.

Across the long, dark basement he hides among the shadows,
briskly walking across the cold wood floor towards the blue lit
bathroom. Turning to leave I never look back as I shuffle quickly.
The dark, emptiness behind me is full of horrors.

The hooded figure welcomes me back into my room as I shut the door
to the horrors, the hooded figure stares at me as I jump into bed
the Cheshire smile is the last thing I see before I close my eyes.

I see some strange sights,
a world within the chasm-
slowly filling up,
flooding the fields of imagination.

There is a desert left,
a blip here and there-
finally joined the herd.

So this is what its like-
seeing the allurement,
yet doing nothing more.

As the pen strokes fade away
I find myself flustered-
as the cinder block wall collapses,
freeing the plains- the single tree
full of dying leaves begins to shake-
the dead boughs and pages.

Brimming with hope-
but alas the pen stroke is gone,
all was as it should be-

As we watched the world fade away
we have actively chosen to stay-
Hiding behind the grey veil we watch the ground,
in order not to lie across,
rather we lost the desire to look at one another.

Pain is never planned,
as we think too much,
and feel even less,

how like the walking dead.

I passed a crow today
I...

The caw...caw...caw...

Came in three high pitched waves.

The tree has become eye candy.

The power of nature hidden,
The dead fallen branches-

Piled up and carted                                                                                             away.

Any disruption of normality-
Piled up and                          carted
away.
As if we can’t walk around-
as if we can’t learn from the fallen-
as if we need the school,
to clean up after nature…

Aesthetics

What once was breathing-
Slowly decaying-

It’s nature…

But who wants to see that?