Animals that have one soul, but two faces
Animals that hide themselves in lies and insecurities
Animals that like to overcomplicate life
Animals that will assault each other with words
Animals that have prides, but act alone
Animals that discriminate on each others individualities
Animals that will **** each other of a matter of ideals

This specie is suicidal
They do not deserve to share the Earth with the other creatures
They build and build only for it to be destroyed
One step forward and two steps back
We repeat history, never learning
We may as well call ourselves Chaos and Insanity

I wonder what this world is coming to
When we have to overcomplicate everything
All I hear on the TV of late
Is ‘bare craic’ as my northern Irish friend would say –
“I can’t understand this  credit crunch,” she said
Poignantly, (neither could I) “I think I’ll take
A dander down to the shops.” And so she did
We were out of milk
And living off salami
I picked up the paper
And I realise nothing is without a price
Or a fate
They are the two certainties
So is death
And the price is not so hard to see either.
The American bigwigs sit round a table
Complaining what is to be done about the financial crisis?
Each eating a $16 dollar muffin with their $8.48 coffee
Wondering where oh where can money be saved?
And they’ll get back in their private limos
Drive past their second addresses
Back down to Bel-air
Lock themselves in their villas
Count their bonuses
And sleep happy
After doing jack ****.
While Greece is going down the crapper.
I can see the solution
Can you?
Or is it just me?
Or can you see it to?

1) I wish people called me Mike Hart, I think it’s a really cool name. I wish I were a year younger and a foot taller. I wish I spoke less and listened more.

2) I’m a love child between science and art but I was raised under the rain in a house made of silver linings. Behind a red door, with gold hearted kids peeking through windows at a world full of endless possibilities.

3) I don’t share a lot about myself. I have dreams my pillows don’t know about and skeletons my closet hasn’t seen. I tend to hide things in the space between the ink and the page where no one can find them.

4) I don’t connect with a lot of girls, but when I do, I tie my shoelaces to their heart strings to stop myself from falling for anyone else. All I have left are scars on my chest from all the times cupid has missed and a few ****** shoelaces.

5) I have a photographic memory but the pictures tend to come out more picasso than canon. I tend to overcomplicate things, I describe hair as the perfect shade of sunset or the sun as that perfect shade of blonde. And I’m called a poet for this.

6) I’m familiar with broken promises and broken people, sometimes I’m doing the breaking. It took me a while to realise that being a man wasn’t about how strong you were to break things but how strong you were to fix them.

7) I love Ice cream in winter, it makes my body shake and reminds me I’m a bit like an earthquake. My laugh has always been a bit too loud but I always believed my life will grow into it.

8) I have holes in my sleeves from where my heart used to be. I locked it up in my rib cage and swallowed the skeleton key. I guess I took it too literal when they said the way to a mans heart is through his stomach.

9) Honestly, I don’t know a lot about myself, but I do know that sometimes my mind is like a paper mâché prison and it’s hard to control the thoughts that get out. Most days I try to keep my lips zipped shut but my eyes are like a see through body bag. On other days music tends to be good enough superglue for broken masks.

10) Hi, I’m Dagogo Hart and I’m Human.

How silly we are to overcomplicate love
Legal forms, caterers, and the same line spoken eagerly at the top of the Eiffel Tower.
All you have to do is ask
And just like that two silently become one
Simple solution for complex creatures

Time is a curious thing. The old cliché.
Not in a "heavy" Marty McFly way
But how, in one moment, you can pray for it
to grind to a halt.
Perhaps as you pound the asphalt
With your dancing shoes
Gasping, through puddles of ***** and **** and *****
To make the very last Nightlink
Of a heart-breakingly beautiful night out on Dublin streets.
And then another moment be wasting it away,
On writing poems, writing *******, writing the truth,
Or standing on the edge of a very tall library building roof
With the short sharp explosion of brain matter, praying it away
As it mulches on the concrete below.
Head first, to ensure success.
To ensure that for the love of god it isn't slow.
How time must crawl for people who can't move...

Each second dripping as slowly
as the painful near of a near-perfect tap.
Or "faucet" as they call it in America.
But then again we have buildings, pieces of paper, all kinds of crap
older than their whole country so what the hell do they know?
Their policemen shoot unarmed civvies or send them to prison  
as a sort of politically correct racial genocide
(because black privilege gets such lovely jumpsuits and body bags.)
Then again, we let priests ****** children here
and think **** is less upsetting than women's rights.
Time doesn't change how consistently wrong people can be I suppose?
If anything we overcomplicate ourselves.
Just think, if I had been born five hundred years ago
I would have died of pneumonia, or something asthma-related.
Or probably gone blind? My eyesight only is getting worse
(although is that to do with my endless-stream-of-computer-screens?)
I feel like that should be worse but I can't bring myself to decide.
Time seems to ask a lot of questions although maybe that is just
because I'm trying to stretch this poem out as long as it takes
before my twenties are over
and my life is more clear and certain
And I have a steady job that I hate
and I am less of a shambles
and have gotten over the depression
and the alcohol binges alone
and the fear of the future
and the self-doubt
and the loneliness
and the sickening
feeling in the pit
of your gut
when you
realise how
slowly
time is
passing
and you want to die.
Or not. I can never concentrate long enough to care.

Overcomplicate me.

Make
Mountains
Out of my dust.
When I inevitably go,
Don't let me
Go easily.

I'll speak in my mother tongue
And embrace
the slang of my Brooklyn roots

I won't try to change
My colloquial way of speech
I don't have anything to prove
With the words I choose to use

Because I'll speak my message plain as day,
I'll spit my rhymes
Like straightforward
Old school rappers
I don't need to sugarcoat my words
I don't need to overcomplicate things
With my messages

I'll take pride in my mother tongue
I won't pretend to be something I'm not
I'm just a girl from Brooklyn
Who has a lot to express.

when they tell me that I am a star
and when they tell me that I’m bigger on the inside, that I remind them of the universe
my eyes are planets and my skin is stardust
I’m a home
I’m the adventure
I’m spine to the book
I’m the book itself
I am made of something else entirely, but I am never human.

bright green ocean eyes, I look back at you, when you look at me
desperately, are there galaxies on my tongue, when we kiss?
beneath the sand paper shell on my lips, too much coffee, too many drunken cigarettes. is it that which keeps the cosmic dust under my eyes like dark rings
orbiting nothing?
resting where I’m bruised from a lack of sleep and an overdose of citalopram?
is there a solar system sitting in the space behind the back of my knee
when I’m lying face down in the bath, empty and hardly warm at all,
staying up until 4 am screaming whilst I reorganise myself, the universe of chaos that I am
dusting the stars of the sorrows they burden as you point up to exclaim how beautiful they are.

I have been given too much responsibility here
the stars light the night sky, but see
who’s filling the space in between? tiny and distant, too small to properly distinguish, I must be drowning in the blackness
but in the morning when I am gone I can no longer see, my use is diminished and you cannot see me, anymore
this is when I close my eyes and I see the darkness I’m supposed to avoid, the darkness you ignore, and I try to whisper to the other stars
“be the night”
but they are tired, too.
they are awake at 4 am weeping into the emptiness and their mother, far away, hums quietly like a motorway
but her voice, calm, she says to us “be the abyss,
be that which engulfs,
make them uncomfortable with how big you are, how loud, how infinite.
fill the spaces they told you not to fill, the spaces which one cannot ignore.”
and then there is a light. but not a starlight.

I am not extraterrestial
I am the space in between your words
I am not the keys by the door
or the opening of eyelids
I am the wind that carries the balloon and the static in-between fingertips
I am neither stars nor hurricanes, I do not sit amongst satellites
but I am the stillness that carries them, and the storm, and i let it ride.
I am not bad, but I sure as hell am not good, and
I am not made of stars.
I am the darkness.
and when you have been gazing up at me, you have misjudged in which place to look
because you see a tiny part of what I am, and then you tell me that I am beautiful.

I am sickly and real like the foolishness of life and I don’t scratch at the surface of the jar like I was a caged butterfly
but I smash the jar to pieces from above so my palms are as rough as yours
I am dangerous and boring in equal measure and you overcomplicate me so you have something to look at
because I am not a science, I am not your prose, I am not an equation and I certainly
am not for you to work out at all
and, my love, neither are the stars.
for you still cannot dictate to a universe no matter how many times you insist it startles you
because eventually it will **** you and as you have told me before 
nothing which is beautiful does that which is ugly.

I am made of skin and bone and blood I will one day rot away, but for now I am warm
and that is fair, and my skin is thick, and my hair is soft
and I am kind.
but I am also ******, my thoughts often black, my hands red, I bruise blue.
I am callous and violent and though I am dangerous I do not hold my sword to fight you in battle. I hold the sword for myself. 

and that much is true of the stars and I
that we burn bright. colossal, dangerous, lovely, lonely.
and you cannot tell a star how to shine
and you cannot tell me how to sit, softly
so merely we, the stars and I, are friends.
I am not it, it not me, and
I am not a metaphor, I am not a poem, I am not the universe at all
I am a woman.
and that is plenty enough.

We are, according to society and this grand world that we live in: Nothing.

Compared to the greatest of Gods and vastness of universes, we are not even able to completely understand how we are not even the dust in the wind.

How we might matter so little to the world.
And at the same time, how little the world can matter to us.

But what about us?

What about us is so special?

Why do we fight for our legacy? Why do we try so hard that it hurts? Why do we care?

Well...

Why the hell not?

It is just so easy to disregard that as an answer?

Maybe the reason, we don't accept "why not?" as an answer it because it's so simple.

It is so easy to just say that something is because well.... it is!

But we overcomplicate that. We try to justify everything in its complexity and we find plot holes, or evidence of a crime, something to praise or blame for the answer to "Why?".

I stopped asking that question simply because there isn't a point to asking a question you already know the answer to.

So again, now that I know why we do things the way we do...
What is so special about us being like that?

I see you, you know.
I see everything.
I pay attention to the small things.
And I write about the details when you don't care to notice them yourself.

I do this in order to earn the title of "Poet" but I don't have the goods to back it up yet.

Yet...

I see you.
And I also see us.
I see the suffering that we go through, and try to make sense of it.
I see a car, and picture the destination.
I see a sign, and imagine the paint still drying.
I see myself, and I am left speechless at what could've happened to me, and what I was lucky enough to get, assuming that I got something good.

And I mean, that's true because I had you for a time.

Promises can be empty.
Friend circles can be full.
Text messages can be messy, but I can translate.
And my words will always make absolutely no sense.

You are everything.
And so am I.
We can not be insignificant, or overlooked if we are this present.

Your smile could probably build another universe where we aren't so small in comparison to everything.

And I will never overlook that.

Because every good thing about us is still true.
Why?
Like I told you, it exists... it is.

So... why not?

Words almost said.

Almost is not enough.

Is it worth the pain?

Only one way to find out.

Predicted reactions, overthinking outcomes; better prepared.

What do we do now, moving forward?

Stuck within the safe middle-ground, no...

You'll grow tired of me.

What do I do now...

Could we just leave & live a life together?

Would it be better?

Are there ever consequences to real love?

Humans put the pain in love when there isn't supposed to be.

We complicate things & overcomplicate everything.

Let's just be simple.

Let's just... b e .

Let's just exist.

Let's just love because tomorrow is never promised.

Tomorrow is never promised, so let's just
l o v e . . .