Tomorrow I will write the worlds best poem,
                                         one with rhythm, beauty and form.

It will change how everyone views the world,
                                  around my pinky finger they'll all be curled.

Tomorrow I will paint a masterpiece,
                              with genius hidden beneath colors rich and deep.

It will change my soul,
                                          make me feel whole.

Tomorrow I will be the best,
                                                   at everything I test.

But tonight
                    I will just write.

A Nation founded on movement,
                                 now manifest nothing more than suburbs and cement.

In the beginning we came to this land, and became lost.
From our civilized lives to wilderness we were tossed.

Nature swallowed us, a beautiful maze of
unknown trees and streams.
unknown freedom and dreams.

In the new millennium we find the essences of exploration spent on
million-dollar homes and
million-dollar corporations and
                          million-dollar schemes.

And so I suggest a  Nationwide Event!
                              Turn off your cell-phone and sleep in a tent!
Our Developed Destiny has come at a cost.
                              We need to escape this world of websites and car-exhaust.   

So we can re-discover the beauty of being lost.

I Can't help it,
             I know I'm self destructive and horribly putrid.

I accept who I am,
               glorifying the monster like no-one ever did.

I know you are growing to hate me,
                            but honestly; I disembodied you to keep my self free.


To me you are a ******* ***** who doesn't see the right of way
                                                             ­  and it is in your hate for me I play.

For the pain you cause,
                      you will see returned to you in the intensification of all your self-flaws.

Do not go to college
       until you are actually ready.

Never stop jumping down the stairs.
                     Or leaning back in unsteady chairs.

Leap to the tip of the atmosphere from the heavy plastic seat of the swing.
Every time you go ****, sing.
Be amazed by even the simplest thing.

Don't give up on your dreams nephew,
                               they will take them and turn them to a brown lumpy mound of chew.
                               You will get stabbed in the back and never know by who.
                               Tears will fill a river flowing into this earth, more than a few.
                              
You are the untapped intelligence in a million brains cells that have yet to read.
Your heart fills with joy at the simply task of writing your name because of that ever growing need,

                                                      to be bigger and better than the person you are today.

So here is what I have to say.
You amaze me.
Even though, sometimes you still *** your pants.

Smoking under the Friday Night Lights.
                 Counting change,
                              **** work for minimum wage.

Small talk of unreachable heights.
                  A young mind with a big dream,
knowing none of this is worth it,
in the grand scheme.

You can keep your job
                         I didn’t want it anyway.

Running things like you are Don of the
                                                                      pizza mob.

Although, I do appreciate,
the liquor money to drink until self-hate,
                   and cigarettes to survive the hang-over.

Tonight, I can finally say,
                                    that everything will be okay.

I want you to lie to me.
            I want you to tell me that in your dreams
                                you wear an ugly polo and khaki pants.
                                         And that you LOVE tucking your shirt in.

I want you to tell me that flipping burgers
                                is a step in the door to reaching your life-long goals.
                                                    

I want you to get on your hands and knees.
   I want you to beg.
      I want you to plead.

I want you to say you'll never be as successful as me.

I want you to accept you'll never be free.
                  
THEN.
               MAYBE.

*You'll earn the right to make minimum wage.

The trees bare themselves for winter.

While we barricade.

It's time for the ***** snow and the drippy nose.
Stressful dinners
                 and
                        hand-me-down clothes.

Thanksgiving house-fires
                          and
                                 Christmas suiciders.

So bundle up!
And arm yourself with holiday cheer.
                                         Because we'll be lucky to make it this year.

How do you begin the day
                        when the night never came to an end?

I repaint
                Mona Lisa
                            In dazzling dyes and exuberant expressions.

Here I sit with my monsters and a ****-eating grin.
          They treat my mind like a playground, with recesses in the shadows of every membrane.

But without these demons to conquer there would be nothing to win.

I've been victim to this darkness, feeling no self worth and masochistic and insane.

That darkness that makes us look at the mirror in appall.

That terrible feeling that starts in your gut, working its way to your heart then ripping and tearing its way
                                            through bone, muscle, and vein.

But I'm sick of running, now I pain pictures of them on my wall.

I embrace feeling of
                  self-consciousness
                         ­                  and pain.

I accept that they walk beside me down every hall.

On weakness these creatures prey,
                         stopping many from standing tall.

They drag you down to self-destruction and try and sweet talk you into a stay.

And when away you try and crawl,
                   they quickly slink back to bay.

And you start to forget about them,
                                                           ­    once and for all.

While in the back of your mind they quietly play.


Everyone has their monsters,
                                                     their demons,
                                                                ­             their skeletons in the closet.

I know I'll never win this war,
                                *but at least
                                                      I haven't
                                                         ­             lost it.

It is only a matter of time before they realize,
                  this world has been destroyed by land development and population size.

And they will look for cratered pastures.

Because the moon is so beautiful this time of night,
                      and a mansion would look so elegant in that light.

So they will fly their luxury shuttles
                  to the dream homes in bubbles.

And leave us in this dump they left behind.

But what they don't know, is when they make their depart,
                                                the music here on Earth will start.

So fly to your Moon Mansion and leave us to rot.
                                    *We know a beautiful life cannot be bought.

Open the window once again,
                                  and let the morning in.

Last night seeps through my body like a disease.

I need the cold breeze.
                            And the hot coffee
                                           And the leftover cigarette,
                                                                                lone veteran of the night.

Now I wipe the sleep from my eye, because.
                                        Today will be alright.

I have set a new goal
                     a poem a day, and lately I've been on a roll.

But today my mind is a blank slate
                          and as the hours of the day grow late,

                                             I still haven't thought of anything to write about.

So! I'm taking an alternative route!
This poem is about nothing,
                        I'm simply hoping the words will ring.

It's an exercise in dedication,
           and although I'm now starting to lose the war with my night-time cold medication,
                                                                                                                                  at least I wrote something.

Each morning
close to ten.
I get a call from Egypt,
                                        or India.
Exotic places, that I will never see.
Flooding with people I will never meet.
                                But Ahmed calls everyday.

When the phone rings, and I see the number.

I want to sing him a song.

                       Picture message him masterpieces.

                                                           Text him epics.

In a sea of instant hang-ups,
              and hot-headed drunks.
                      Poverty stricken parents,
                                                    and last straw leaps.

In the ocean of anger and grief,
I want to be the voice that reads poetry.

first comforting...

but be wary,
                                          it is a silent killer.

It hits you, in the middle of a late night re-run.
And all of the sudden..
You listen to the scheduled bickering in pure optimism.

Your eyes grow heavy,
                   stories grow ridiculous and lengthly.

The scrubbed lady appears less frequent,
                         the mechanized beeps become dulled.

The scheduled hit of temporary relief
                            your head falls back into medicated sleep.

Realizing that we expect far too much from one another.

Whiskey made the words spew from my mouth.
Word ***** splattering into the air,
                       ruining a perfectly good night.

And instead of painting a beautiful picture with words,
winning your heart with the charisma and vocabulary I had practiced in my head
        over
                and
                       over.

My drunken brain
(which in its stupor had convinced my logical brain that any of this was a good idea in the first place)
connected together a slur of words that now hang forgotten
         only
                by
                    me.

And I apologize.
For the only thing between us now,
                       is the occasional text.

The Internet has this amazing way

of making art

feel so accessible

yet so demeaning.

The next time we see each other,
                                we'll be smiling.
                                                        ­      And happy,
that there are others to fill the void, created by
     embarrassment
               and
                    pain.

And while we avoid eye-contact.
And ask our acquaintance-esque questions.
We'll momentarily wonder why we don't see more of each other.

Then happily walk our separate ways.

Gravekeepers,
                          are the peace seekers for the souls past.

Slipping into consciousness
                exploding with pain.

So much time spent, praying to this porcelain god.
Asking why
Begging for a break.

Those rare moments with the pain fades, and the absence feels like the strongest intravenous drug ever plunged into your veins

during those

late night ER visits that have become ever too familiar.

With sheets for walls.
And Judges for Doctors.

And cries from children echoing off white sanitized walls.

And you slipping out of consciousness
and into drug induced escape.

As the ceiling panels become beautiful,
and the scratchy sheets become cozy,

You breath a sigh of relief

Know that you are nothing more than a puddle.

Starting off as a pure droplet,
                    falling to this earth in a rush of adrenaline and confusion.
Then you collect and form.
                    Become involuntarily tainted by the world around you.

But in your stagnant existence there is beauty.
           You reflect every detail in the world around you.
                               You become that world.

               The generations of growth and survival in every twist of a redwood.
               The dreams of a million men in the windows of a skyscraper.
               The unexplored wonder of the crevasse of every mountain.

And soon, we will be returned to the sky, only to fall
and reflect another world.

I lent you dog-earred Bukowski,
                           you returned it unread.

Take these boulder that rest upon your
weary shoulders.
And crush them into crimson pigments,
so rich
     and dark.

Paint the sunrise of tomorrow
                 and let the morning glow.

Waste the day away,
                   with music and lung decay.
And when the mind begins to stray, it is in the shadows that it plays.

And when night begins to fall,
                    waste away the nights with stories and cheap alcohol.

Until you finally collapse in your bed,
                               and all is quiet within your head.

We all
share the night.

Tease the campfire,
and toss me another cold one.

We'll tell stories between the cracks of the burning wood.
Or let the trees blanket us in silence.

Once the sun sets, all we have is
time to waste.

So.
Let's do anything,
but fight.

Where are the Kerouacs?
The Ginsbergs?
The Cassadys?

Drunk on
wine
and life

Riding the highways and railroads to dreams unseen, even by them.

Clashes of ideas, like bright lights in the dim daybreak of an all-nighters.
Fueled by cigarettes and philosophy.

Now everyone wants the same thing.
A boring spouse.
A boring job.
A boring house.

What happened to the generation of lost souls that once searched the open plains and the cramped alleyways?

For nothing more than a beautiful moment.