You
do not rhyme
with me,
and I can see that.
-even from here-
One day I passed you
-or you
passed me-
but only I know
that you did not see
me
-only I know
the difference-
you looked
but did not see.
We do not rhyme,
-you and me-
together
we make
-dissonant-
harmony,
we make
-useless-
eye contact;
we do not
-wish we could-
rhyme,
you and I.
One day I saw you
-not just looked
but saw-
and
it scared me,
the
-obvious-
thoughts
in your head,
the
-unrhyming-
poetry
written on your face,
the
-unfailing-
-unwavering-
-unrelenting-
-untamed-
knowle­dge
that side
-by-
side,
we do not rhyme.
And so I wrote
-one day-
-one afternoon-
a ballad
for you and me.
It doesn’t rhyme.
It can’t be put to music.
It can’t be
what you might expect,
-never-
but
this is how I am.
Unrhyming.
-sorry-

America, you don’t need us anymore
so we’re going on vacation.

You’ve got religion to whisper in your ear
and sing you to sleep at night,
and culture of homogeneity to get you up
and going on cold Monday mornings, coffee in hand.
You’ve got plastic prophesies to keep you alive
and sick on medicines from unrhyming
peddlers of purpose.
You’ve got assumptions and science to teach the kids now
so long as the chemists abandon their really significant digits!
You’ve got calculus problems and practical things to scribble
on the back of the wornout canvasses of Monet and the recycled
papyrus of Parmenides—nothing’s changed.

You don’t need metaphorical ice cream.
You don’t need symbolism of green ideas.
You don’t need moonlight anymore.
You don’t need breezes on summer afternoons
unless they’re part of a lemonade ad.
You don’t need stars.
You don’t need hope or purpose or prosperity
that can come from the meaningless lines
of poems.
You don’t need us anymore, so we’re leaving.
That’s it.
We’re done.
Goodbye, America. It’s been
fun.

Each & every soul will go thru all layers of heaven and hell, It is written.
The cyclical ascension and the damnation of the eternal and imperishable soul. How novel. Resurrection, reincarnation, simulcarnation and such.
If you're having fun, it won't last forever. If you're suffering, your suffering shall end. No soul shall remain in heaven forever, and no soul shall suffer eternally either. A soul shall not perish but keep living different lives in various worlds.
If you're beautiful, you shall be ugly. If you're ugly, you shall be beautiful. If you're a man, you shall be a woman. If you're a woman, you shall be a man. If you're white, you shall be black. If you're a jew, you shall be an arab.
Ask, and you shall receive. But will it be in this present life? Or shall it be in another life, another world ?

"a fluttering bird gets its wings clipped"

shut up Trent, no one gives a ****

that one girl said no to you and your

beard/beanie combo and you're shook to the core

"life is cruel, i am a prisoner and you have the keys"

***** please

you live in a studio apartment in the heart of Chicago

you can pay rent because you work at a start-up that gives you more money than you've earned

"for your touch, a thousand years i've yearned"

oh this is now about that one girl at Planet Fitness that you aggressively stalk on Instagram

and you feel it's your right to date her, dump her, and rate her

bud, I've got news for you

no one thinks you're cool 'cause you microbrew

especially not the woman who you think of as your muse

and you haven't said one word to you feel misused

because she doesn't take notice of you

and she hasn't looked at you

and she doesn't want to

because she's married

Trent you humongous ******

"A soaring ****-bag doesn't say a word to a girl and thinks its her fault."

Free verse is an addiction
A fully encapsulating feeling
Of emotional disarray
Being confined to set ways.

Why do I feel the
Urge to write?
In uneven lines,
In unrhyming ways?

It's pure, it's harsh,
It's memories incarnate.
Spontaneous streams,
Creeks of consciousness.