Yup, that's right.

Don't be offended or upset.
It's very environmental,
recycling words.

True, the quality of literacy,
(have mercy on it!)
is getting quite strained
(not-so-good poems
droppeth as the
gentle rain from heaven).

Certain words are grumbling,
talking, overworked and overuse,
in poems that say nothing new
(they got their pride too!).

Rumors of unionizing going around,
increasing the minimum wage
to a passing grade,
and something like
a penny a letter,
and double for words,
not of the English language...

The ringleader I'm told
is the word itself

Words

tired from being in
59,649 poems (plus 1 now)

Death, heartbreak and depression,
scars, cutting and sad,

the most overwrought ones,
the children's beloved,
their never-ending
plastic ones trending,
under the weight collapsing
of boring and from
the pressure of overuse, bending.

The words have brought
the unrisen, alabaster body
of poor dead (oops)

Love (137,207 + 1)

as evidence of this
too long a verbal
season of victory.

Make no mistake,
among the guilty we be,
our sweet tooth
for these miscreants,
documented in black and white,
resting uncomfortably,
among our total of
171,500 words we've purportedly
recorded and employed.

The Writer's Guild,
all a titters, arms, up and akimbo,
the cries of poetry poverty
among the living thundering,
no longer
suffering silently,
ere the mendicancies cries
from Ye Olde York emanating,
seeking contributions
and donations,
minimum on PayPal,,
one whole dollar!

Well I have paid my dues,
much more than one
and much more than once,
would so again, annually,
as I could no more
surcease this gig,
for where to find
another profession that
pays so handsomely?

Let it not go unnoticed
like so many poems
left footed born,
themselves, unread, unnoticed,
that the ever increasing number of

Poets

is a good thing for the universe.

So many new humans each day,
from the black forest of
daily life's lessons emerge
choosing poetry to
conquer life's ailments.

For they bravely
having taking the
road less traveled by,
and that has made all the difference,      
and the world,
a better place for it...

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

down the hallway
where destiny led
inside a room
where inhibitions shed
white miracles bled
I’ll lay my head
to dream beneath
a non de plume
I’m not me, are you?

riotous beauty will bloom
where it is aptly
coveted
smell the sweet perfume
told our sweet, sensual song
will long be often
coveted,
down the hallway
where destiny led

But this is reality.

What I am thinking, believing,
She, I,
cannot speak to you...it is that

On the edge of Saturn,
watching 3 moons
sink and burn
drowning sorrows
in a intergalactic tavern.

I just can't find
the energy to believe,
so I keep asking,
who is inside my body?
not you, not him,
who is me inside of me?

On the edge of me,
is not the endless roses or
the fact they seem
to placate themselves in repose.

It is not even the field
of riotous color
that undulates endlessly,
what I was led
to believe.

Not even the heady scent
that has slowed my feet,
can compete
with what I believed,
and what now,
no longer do...

I was an idiot last year
but I liked that idiot better
Just know I'm still clinging to the tablecloth
Where the wine spilt
I'll try to get it out but you know I'm useless
And sweetness
Is lost on me

Enormous shadow sweeten beneath storm
Then cold always have Monday
Light flood and drink dress in soften moon like
Love ugly at shine be foolish

Warm symphony morning
Trust every dream
Who would ought he must
Sleep
Scream run

Spring have frantic ease but
Bare when with together smooth sea
Cool through delirious leave

Slow fast river soft cold

your eyes
resigned and dark
like they've never seen a minute of sleep
(i mean this in the best way)
sometimes i catch myself staring and look away
because i am afraid that
if i gaze for too long
i'll never be able to stop
(please don't be offended)
and your tired voice
as though you feel you have to speak softly
or it will shatter this fragile thing
between us
sometimes i don't understand your murmurs
but they're beautiful all the same
and i don't ask you to repeat yourself
because i don't want you to think
you should ever speak louder
you are
the kind of sleepy   
i wouldn't mind listening to
(or looking at)
(or kissing)
for the rest of forever
your eyes say 'let me sleep'
and the timbre of your voice
replies 'if only i could'
but your words persist
fueled only by
your unrelenting interest
in
me

Worlds coming together, scream that the things that don't matter,
Don't let the neighbor hear. Machines stab, sew, tie my mouth shut with thin cotton thread.
Purple is my favorite color.
But I sewed the wrong shape, time to start over. I have run out of fabric.
And I am broke, breaking, broken,
Don't try to fix me, you cannot put the pieces back together
With the ancient method you use. Putting clay pieces with gold,
Things are more beautiful having been broken:
*******.
It is all ruined. Plans, hopes, dreams are never real, all in my head.
A wake up call so I can chuck my alarm out the window and maybe jump with it.
Know where I am headed, some say Hell just because I tried. But I can't believe that.
Thought provoking? Good. You need to turn on that ******* brain of yours;
It is rusty. Get some CLR and clean it out just like a shower head, let the water run free again.
Gallop over naked bodies like wild horses in plain
Sight. See the things you never dreamed of, thread breaking, snapping at the seams;
Crimson silk shrivels and crumbles to the floor, looking like the liquid so many people long for.
Red wine runs through people's veins, the so-called blood of Christ that has been long dead, but somehow still teaches ignorant ******* to **** and isolate those who know the truth.
I don't believe it. Topics change and so do we, but we are stuck in a frozen wasteland, thoughts
Jumbled in a pile, never changing, ever-changing, but still the same.

Do I shock you? It is the way it is, life isn't always going to be peachy, little girl, you won't grow
Up to be famous like you want to. We all had that dream, but it unravels like the skin
That real fame paints onto you.
You will be as ****** up as I am. Writing words that no one knows the meaning to, even you
Won't know what they mean, it is a puzzle on a cell phone screen.
An infected wound from dry lips cracking, spilling blood into a kiss that was supposed to be
Passionate. But it was forced; I can call you the name in three languages: *******. Selling
Yourself for the riches that aren't worth a cent. It's drug money, I have seen it.
You will rot like the rest, and be confused as I am. Feel relieved you aren't pregnant, darling.
That will ruin your reputation, ruin your income.
But it's okay. You have a degree in law, sue the ******* that did it to you, go through the
Pain of killing once more because you did it to yourself when you were younger.

The subject seems to be sobering. More medication please, we don't want her to go insane.
Too ******* late, you *******. That happened too long ago to remember. The womb
Did this to me. Possessed me with a ghost of a sleeping dragon, roaring fire and singeing the
Tips of my fingernails. I painted them black to cover it up.
I didn't sell it, I am no solicitor, no one likes them. The hexagonal shapes I print on the snow
Come from somewhere, though. I don't have shoes, my traces in the snow are paw prints from
The realm of wolves. It is there that I am at peace, natural instinct prevails.
Tear the seams between us, dear. Take away the pesky cloth covering our natural selves and
Roam the forest with me. That is where the freaks are.

Feather pen, traditional; it is a lovely piece. Jar of ink,
Spilled a drop in a cracked floorboard. It spreads fast, covers the room. Isolated,
Blackened and insane. Thirty four minutes pass, not a sound.
Mind is failing: who am I? Forget your own name, voices are whispering.
Did you know lovers can find each others lips in the complete dark?
Minds reach, feel me. No. This is not dark.

This is endless, too much and too little to look for.
Skill does not matter here.
I fell down the rabbit hole, but my name is not Alice. My name
Is Death. I am a shinigami, you see. And my purpose is to cause pain and worry.
People cry for me. This dark room is where my film developes.
Picture the void that souls fall into, tortures children stabbing, cutting out their own hearts.
Write about it, children. Carve it into your skin and I will take you away.

I am her for you in your darkest hour. And I am always watching.

Never spill your blood red ink again.