Think of the ones who live below us,
who survive only because of natures good graces,
the ones who live in an abandoned bus,
and are always seen as basket cases.
We do not look upon their eyes,
and realize that we are the cause of their demise,
as we make savings by buying more,
and taking advantage of those that are poor.
Though this does not come into our heads,
as we sleep soundlessly, comfortably, in our beds,
for every rich man there are hundreds in the street,
who wear tattered clothes, and no shoes on their feet.
Will we live our life treating them as obsolete,
just so we can check out a celebrities tweet?
Or will we rise above our selfish desires,
and pull these poor men through the fires,
feeding and caring for people we do not know,
just to keep them out of the snow.

Stand up and fight,
you coward,
you wimp.
Will you let them beat you,
as you lay there limp.
Or will you just wait until it is over,
and then pray for a four leaf clover.
Your luck has run out,
but that is only your fault,
you only lay and pout,
and take the assault.
You do not deserve the dreams you have,
when all the effort you put in, is only half,
So stand up and fight,
you coward,
you wimp,
for if you fail now,
you will never survive,
if you do not take that dive.

Laying here like a stone in a stream,
water rushes over, wearing me away.
I attempt to stay and be resilient,
but I am dwindling in size,
and losing power.
I am lifted and sent along the stream,
crashing and tumbling so that I become obscene,
finally falling down the falls,
while I find myself at the bottom of the water,
content with myself, despite the calls,
watching the rest be drawn to the slaughter.

When I write of love,
When I speak of love,
it is like, I was blessed,
from above.
For I have had hardships,
and more one-sided flips,
than contact, with your lips.
It is like an apple in a tree,
which is just out of reach,
I can see it with me,
just as sweet as a peach.
But until I can climb to the tallest branch,
I must I must grab hold of the bark,
and with each step, my wound will stanch,
and I will pull myself from the dark.

To please and appease,
the coming storms breeze,
we shackle ourselves to the ground,
and prepare for the pound.
We do not stand before the storm,
or leave to fight this outrageous norm,
instead we sit and take the hit,
and watch as our throats are slit.
What is the point of life without glory,
or the opportunity to create our story,
we are subdued by the never-ending rain,
and with it comes immense pain.
But if we were to just grab an umbrella,
and continue writing our story,
yes our pages may get wet,
but what is life, without breaking a sweat?

Here I sit,
an American,
on a balcony in Spain,
with a French lover,
and nothing to say.
How un-poetic of me,
that I am not the epitome,
of what a poet should be.
While I should describe the love of my life,
or contemplate life's last words,
I sit content with no strife,
and stare at the birds.

Tear me open,
So that no one can first.
Reach inside of me,
and pulled out my crushed innards,
don't let a bit fall free,
and then plunge back inwards.
Keep on feeding until you are full,
and then tie me up around my throat.
Save me on the side until later,
Or just forget I am there.