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Mikey Pooler Jul 2019
This is a dedicated poem to he who,

Lives the life of an outcast.

Though no outcast to overcast.

To he who lived a life under the clouds,

Who reigned within the rain

Irises holding the eye of the storm.

To he who bears the soul of a hurricane.

To he who swore he bore the title of a melancholic,

Who wanted more than drowning in *****-tonic.

To he who believes he discovered answers to lifes biggest conundrums.

This is a poem dedicated to the poet who wrote it.

The one overflowing with emotion who found self love and is happy with what loves done.
Mikey Pooler Feb 2019
Three White People walk into bar.

The first is a young man in a Wu-Tang shirt who speaks in ebonics,

Except when it comes to black lives he says what happened to equality. All lives matter to say only black lives is nonsense.

The Second is a women in her 40s, she takes two steps and looks around and makes eye contact with the bartender.

The bartender shakes his head and walks away. She says he should know his place, I'm always right. I want to speak with the manager.

The Third is a older Man who has a box in his night stand, with a white hood and pictures he treasures of him with his clan.

Now theres a red hat that has taken its place, just Politics. So this racism is okay, he says to himself. As he's driving thru the projects with his doors locked, waving at all his neighbors he hates. Wearing the same fake smile, he hates their skin. They hate the place.

What has been learned can also be forgotten.

When black men bawl in cries for life with their deaths by a cops hand,

We mind our business until they kneel before the flag....

Then we blackball them.

As if there is another time that we collectively watch them.

White privilege is "that's not my problem."

Three white people walk into a bar,

If this is the set up for a joke then it's one that has gone too far.
A poem for Black History Month.  

@mikeythepoet - twitter
Mikey Pooler Oct 2017
Happiness is merely the control of depression. Acknowledge  depression as a necessary existence in your life. Letting it run its course and violently destroy in silent mayhem. Letting its pain, its blank, numbness of all feeling whilst at the same time in unexplainable fashion, the most horrendous type of pain ever felt, happen. Let it feel as if, all that which once burned so beautifully within you crumbles as ash in your blood. Ash being evidence passionate fires once danced there.  

However, don't ******* dare let depression control how you bask in the bliss of its absence. Bask with dance, bask with that one song you always blast in the car with your best friend and as soon as it comes on, you just look at each other and sing loud with your head out of the car window, bask in bliss as if you were the sun that basks in clear blue skies.

Sharing a shine which somehow seems brighter, with the songs of the birds playing tunes of a deeper love, and the warmth of rays you've always liked yet took for granted become ever so lovely following a harsh, seemingly endless winter.

Let depression happen, it's never for forever. You can't control when depression will come, just as we can't control the weather. Like the clouds, depression will leave the sky in time to bask in more sunshine.

Things will get better, it will all happen naturally. Depression will come and go in an endless loop throughout life, though, like a pesky fly trapped in a room it will blindly and anxiously wisp and weave its way deep within our souls, but like flies depression will always look for a way out. Even if we open the door immediately, flies will move with anxiety, they want to leave though don't realize a wall is there until they've already hit it. They'll linger, get lost and give up for awhile. We can open the door and watch with anger until we come to mirrior the fly, become anxious, why won't this fly leave? Maybe this fly is here to stay? You wake up everyday to sunshine beeming in your face, until one day you could no longer ignore it, so you open your door to leave and enjoy it, coming home to notice the fly left with you, and didn't come back. Happiness is merely holding the door open for depression to leave.
Mikey Pooler Jul 2017
This is a dedicated poem to she who, is beautifully mysterious.

To she who sees how crude the world can be and only wish is to bring change to it.

To she who is a cancer trying to rid the world of that which is cancerous,

To she whose energy echoes through your skin and rumbles in your veins so thunderous.

To she whose eyes draw you in like galaxies that make you feel as if no other sight can compare to this,

To she who gives light to the darkness of the night.

To the goddess, the moon,

To she who waters life,

with such a love that even a seed neglected of light,

Buried in mud,

Shall one day bloom.

This is a dedicated poem to you,

To she Who, made me feel less blue yet feel more blue.

To she was is exactly like me, while being the most independent soul I ever knew.
Dedicated to she who hails from the same star as I, Carley.
Mikey Pooler Apr 2017
Darling you've become my angel of the night with the heavenly aurora of your soul,

Our nightly talks have quickly become the brightest part of my day.

You're a sun that's enveloped the moon in its entirety, enough light to illuminate the deepest depths of the ocean entirely.

You're the angel of the night,

It feels like all will be alright.
Mikey the Poet
Mikey Pooler Apr 2017
Everyone needs a rabbit hole to jump down, our holes may be in different environments but they all lead to the same place, an escape.
Mikey the Poet
Mikey Pooler Apr 2017
I’m constantly being ****** by the ******. Trapped in a pitiful existence believing things blindly since birth. Normalized and Christian born ****** people, exclaiming, proclaiming, spiteful ****** people damming heathens to hell. Hell is for the living, the dead don’t go there.
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