It’s funny, how we laugh.
A crippled man with a cane,
We laugh.
As he struggles, we laugh.
We laugh in the face of his trouble,
His struggle to survive,
and we laugh.

We chuckle at the mis-matched student.
Camouflage pants and corduroy jacket,
An orange hunting hat and tan shirt.
We chuckle at him, in his highest fashion.
As he walks proud at his creation.

We boo the gay couple, and shun them away.
We laugh and call them names.
They search for oasis and fall short often,
Their acceptance here will never be forgotten.

We laugh at the difference,
The ones on their own,
We do not like the change,
From our norm society.

We laugh in their face, in their struggle their grace,
Instead of giving them the hand they deserve.
We walk away and laugh with friends,
As they struggle with their crippled acceptance.

Solemn hour
Yonder year,
Take the latter second,
A car in the distance of the road,
Fertilized with the scent of life
A light reflecting him, and a crow
Perched atop his shoulder.
He ventured toward the chateau,
Cars passing him blanked by countless efforts
Tripped inside, a maid approaches the door
She appears to be one-hundred,
The crow fell off the shoulder and dust remained
Where the maid cleaned up and left.

I walk around with my label-gun
and stab you with your permanent mark.
You belong here, with them.
Sulking and alone.

Or you belong with them,
Rich and stuck up.

Or with them, synthetic beings
with synthetic organs.

Or with yourself, secluded and different.
Maybe you need no label,
Maybe just an escape

I stood there with open words,
A blank mind and colorful slate.
Free of prejudice, the glass seems clear.

A cheer here and there, a successful move forward,
A journey almost satisfied,
A night out alone ol' Luna in the sky,
A trip into roses, of all different kinds.

Recovery and some blood, the journey has just begun.
With birds on heavy watch, guarding their sacred forest.
Closed words and filled mind,
A grayscale slate was left.

As I stand there, with the water through my hair
I look around and see the tiles,
Beige, and the grout,
White, but *****.

I stand there, and gaze.
I reminisce of the day's events,
Of happiness and exhaustion,
And smile to myself.

I grab the soap, and wash the day away,
That tainted water that falls down the drain.
As I fresh up for bed, and prepare to sleep,
I write them down, the day's events,
As not to throw them away.

A sudden feeling -
One that flows through the veins,
Into your hands - clenched
The sudden urge comes up
Like yesterday's lunch,
Eyes covered in red,
Grinding teeth, clenched muscles
Angry, feverish hate,
A sudden feeling to lunge forward,
And strike

Here I am, I stand
for one thing
I stand tall and proud
and shrink -

It's like a magnifying class
being pulled away from an ant
as it grasps for its life

Here I am, falling
A simple hole in the ground
where I stomped angrily

the world spins with me,
the colors bedazzle and amaze
everything seems slow,
why is the clock broke?

Here I am, on the ground
now grasping for my life
here I am, an ant under a magnifying class
gasping for air
begging for life

the world spun with me
like a top that wont stop
and now it's fallen, and I am lifeless

It’s like standing on the edge of a cliff -
and looking down
a downward spiral into a whirlpool,
that drains your dreams delicately
into a sealed bowl.

it’s like staring into the sky, and falling
that feeling you get when you know what’s coming
a nauseous feeling in your stomach,
the tingling of your feet and the absence of feeling in your arm

it’s like a clock going backwards
as everything moves forwards
like a gesture made often but
frequently forgotten

it’s like sitting on the train tracks
waiting for it to come
to wake up and ride away
to steal pain and numb the sadness

it’s like waking up from a bad dream
into a nightmare - that sudden feeling of worry
that washes over and drowns

it’s like falling off the cliff
watching that whirlpool wait to consume
knowing what awaits and accepting.

I sit inside a poets mind,
And mess with the machine,
Their stories pour and print on paper,
And it's not always clean.

A gear there and engine here,
Their clicking engines work.
The pen falls and fills the bottle
Of ink while it spills.

The story is done,
His work is gone,
But never is forgotten.
He resets the typewriter
And starts to write again.

A hopeless romantic,
Armed with rose in hand,
A humble appearance in a sappy film.

A thorny stem, the hand begins to bleed
Red, the color of passion,
The color of anger and love.

The stem is green, that paints red
With the liquid passion leaking out of the hand
At the bottom, the passion falls and pools at the feet.

The heart poured onto this symbol of romance,
A dark twist to a classic fate,
Carrying it forward, the romantic trips,
And the white rose falls, and loses its purity.

The pedals fall, one by one.
Like beauty and the beast, the story was done.

A trek, down the air filled with the pour of rain,
A stumble upon a carcass, empty and reminding
This land that bears no water, replenished for good thought
A car passes and leaves, the illumination from the fogged lights
Dims out and dies, left alone with a jacket for protection.

Down the road, the ending growing far,
The rain starts to clear, and cracks of thunder take it's place
The flash of lightning and the rising of flames,
Put out by the returning drops of water.

Every time the lightning whips the sky,
The crack of the thunder shakes and wonders the watchers,
As the time slows with every crack of the whip.
The end seems near, but grows only farther,
Where flames and water, lightning and thunder
Gather to dance

I am Jack, awake at night.
Staring at the ceiling, eyes peeled open,
Tired and without energy, but his mind insists
That he stay wake.

I am Jack, dreaming, asleep.
Falling, flying, fighting.
I toss and turn on my coffin-bed,
I am restless, tired in dreams.

I am Jack, awoken and slow.
I struggle to wake and stumble to go.
Staring at the ceiling, still half-dreaming,
I start my engine, and get up to prepare.
The day ahead will be tiresome,
But the night-time's always there.

Walking down the dim-lit path
Whistling to Beethoven’s Fourteenth Sonata,
With admiration to the moonlight path,
Littered with the bodies of drunken old men,
The crunch of the ice, the snow clinging to the boot,
The fires in trash cans, the scrounging for money

The rot of alcohol and filth pollutes the air,
Under the bridge, a most depressing place.
This gathering of unwelcome guests, a man without a place.

Out of the bridge, shows the moon once again,
With tears falling from its gentle craters.
As it falls to the ground, a gem shows its landing.
A gem that when gazed into, one can only see oneself,
Littered on the street, a drunken old man.

As the windows roll down,
The wind blows in,
The cold crawls up my arm,
And spreads like butter,
Engulfing the surface of my being.

The wind blows in and freezes the car,
The time stops and the moment stands still,
The night is young, but eager

The moon and stars frown
As I tuck myself to bed at night,
It’s still young, and hungry for life.

A mark of mastery, a degree of high status,
Atop a tall throne, spectre in hand.
Waving and yelling like the fools in grey.

This ink, which poisons his blood,
Paints profound pictures posing
A small threat to mind.

In dreams, I create infinity.
I walk down Escher’s infinite stairs
and trip – as a board breaks.

In dreams, I fall.
I fall and land in the sand.
In dreams, I build buildings
Eight miles high.
Each floor a mirror of different sights.

In dreams, I create life.
I satisfy that which is not satisfied.
They breathe, they live and die.

In dreams, I cancel reality,
I find my escape, and break the ladder down.

In dreams, I create infinity.
I manipulate time.
In dreams, I live forever.

A grey canvas, the heavens weep.
tears taken from the sad and the joy.
A gloomy mood provided from the angels:
A time to reflect

A pool for the air, the cars struggle
to swim through, the folk with
plastic shields to remain dry.
their feet dragging through the puddles.

the children stare out the window,
groaning and whimpering at the tears from the sky.
the watch their saturday morning cartoons,
a distraction from nature.

as everyone resets and sleeps away,
the angelic weep begins to decay,
as the sun shines, and reflects the moon,
the angels rise in a better mood.

One poet to another,
“Your writing is great, what’s your inspiration?”
And the one replies.

“The earth. The sky, the clouds and the moon.
The summer, the fall, the winter and spring.
Everything around me is a picture,
and my job is to paint them through words.
My inspiration? the question is what’s not to inspire.”

The other replies.
“What’s not to inspire? The ****** and the crimes,
The blind, the sick and the sad.
The homeless, the lost and the wicked.
Are those inspiration?” asked the poet.

“The ****** and the crimes are another picture,
A poem is a way to express the grief and sadness in the world and as a result.
Everything is inspiration. It’s the job of a poet, to turn them into words.”

A tired face, exhausted by the stress of days
A stomach empty from the absence of activity,
A mind blank from the blistering sun.

A crawling arm, dragging body against the dirt
The illusion of water approaches and fades
Down a tunnel that spins, the crows laugh
and point, the body limp, dragging across that earth.

A litter of bones, of animal and sapiens,
The remains of a fallen building, a clock tower
That still chimes its twenty-fifith hour.