History, a word that carries memory,
transformation,
success, and failure.

Though written in skewed remarks
By the victors of the time
The truth will out.

It is not until
The Kool-Aid runs out
That one can begin to question.

If you only knew the thoughts
Swimming through my head
In underwater bubbles in a brain
Floating around inside my head

I am inside and outside these thoughts,
Like fish jumping in a pond, they come
Suddenly, in and out of their environment.
Oh, if you only knew the thoughts

You might be amazed at my aquarium.

Just as those in days of old
These too shall fall.
The people said, "Let us build
A tower day by day, hour by hour.
And it will glow, and all will glower
Bringing us magnificence and glory!"
Where is that fabled tower?
Is it not gone, stone by stone?
Just as those in days of old
These too shall fall.

The foolish say, "It is far better
To make friends with the beast
Than to be eaten by it."

They never realize until it's too late
That the beast will eat them anyway.
In the end, they were kept alive

As food to devour in lean times.
Lean times come to all beasts
Because they consume everything, until

They must turn to the fool in reserve.

You are a papercut,
An irritant in this life.
A sting to the tongue
When licking envelopes.
Insane like the crowd
Shouting, "Do it, do it!"
To the one on the ledge.
Your only goal, it seems
To be a harm to others,
Of which you succeed
Often and repeatedly.
Somehow, it makes you
Feel like a superior man.
But only shines a mirror
To your inferior interior.

I have limits
For I am only human,
Imperfect in body
And with a feeble mind.
I reach for the stars
Anyway.

Some poems are like naughty children
Who have grown into their young adulthood.
They simply drop their clothes, a quick reveal.
Other poems are like the dancer of the 7 veils
Who peels layer after layer in the slow reveal.
A poem is like a beloved child, good or bad.

Some are happy, some are sad.
All are born from those who parent them.
Indeed, they are the fruit of our mental lions.
They carry our mental DNA 'til our dying day
And hopefully well beyond.

Claim them, love them, nurture them, train them,
Good or bad, naughty or nice, boring or full of spice.
There are no ******* poems for you; they all belong.
Each to its progenitor, each for its parent will long.
Boldly claim each one of them as your own.
For they are all our children.