one thousand and one percent of the time
i'm tapped out of rhythm and straining to rhyme
i make up impossible stories and wish they were mine
and since they aren't, sometimes, i think i'd rather die
than live in a world where second class citizens are people who
are more connected to their emotions than me and you
who can't love who they love and instead have to lie
to get a good job or a role in society

we act like being who you are is actually a crime, you see,
you must be the norm for your family to be proud
there isn't a place here for people who're loud
you've got to jump on the bandwagon and be part of the crowd
there are no OPINIONS if you're not rich, male or white
called bossy or cruel when you have a bit of a bite

it's wrong apologizing for our daughters when on the playground they rule
beg pardon for her inherited superior leadership tool
because we may not realize that this is a good thing,
we've become ignorant of stereotypes, they've been ingrained into our brains
and the sad part is, no matter how much time passes,
they are almost sure to remain,
for our sakes and our childrens', society needs to CHANGE.

OKAY HERE'S PART TWO BUT IT'S NOT DONE SO.... optional (i would write more of this but i gave up, never going to be finished basically and it's really bad and I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH IT)

thank god the media is finally beginning to see our ways as strange
yet we still indirectly promote [anorexia, bulimia], shove it down each other's throats
advertising is a thing we cannot afford to misquote,
we may see the greedy product givers but our children do not,
our girls and our boys, they are sneakily taught
that you cannot be content, cannot be happy on your own,
they need to do what others do, you must buy this to be good,
there is no way in this world that you ever could,
be empowered, successful and handsome at once, you must have perfect skin
and a nice weave to match,
your own hair is _, in public it falls flat

Losing control
******* in sin
in amber shot glasses, beer glasses,
goblets red like blood and twinkling in the fire

I try not to mind it
I love him and he just turned twenty one
the age of no more
I try, I promise I do

But I watch a woman drink herself to death
Every
Single
Night
And it occurs to me that I cannot see
the difference
between out of control and completely sober

It has gotten to the point where I see horrible fires at beer commercials, lighting them all up, eating away their sin in explosive technicolor
And I want to hurt the woman in the Spirits Store
even if she has done nothing wrong
but sell my mother the evil
No, it's not actually evil,
but still, I want to choke the life out of her body and keep squeezing
until I feel vertebrae pop
red grapes in my hands
will you partake of that wine?
The pleasure is still there, a kick of adrenaline.
Will you partake?
My sin, though worse than yours, is still sin
Waste not, my friends
**** it in like rats
and I will fall upon you like an avenging angel, reaping

But then I realize
that's crazy.
That's unreasonable.
I should just go to bed.

shuffled quietly into the busy day
transit thru layers of faces
and the thousand random sounds
meant to distract
but i keep pen to page till image surfaces
and words flow however uneven

almost seems like my poems are crossing roads
only every other phrase survives to the page
the rest lay unadorned baking in some
unrelenting internal sun
like roadkill my thoughts
strange and laughing
like prussian soldiers aligned wait for
the drunken magician to send
them charging into battle marching
lockstep backwards
they are sure to be slain
but they know they will be resurrected
later in my life as some odd little ditty
about some random babylon nubile kitten
**** and sweating at the door
looking for a fresh spike

perpetual motion in this silent sky
the clouds form up white grey along the east
and in slow parade move thru my vision
'brisk eastern wind says rain' whispers a companion
'best be done with your writing friend'

the boat rocks slowly in the waves
and there on this un-named atoll lay the wreck of
some long beached sloop
her mast snapped in some long forgotten storm
and the poem i labored to give birth to
surrenders to such an image
of loss and forlorn dreams

goodnight my love
goodnight and sleep well iv got the watch
and nothing shall disturb
no storm nor pirate shall approach unheeded
lay back and dream of my poems to you

perpetual motion in this silent sky
the clouds form up white grey along the east
and in slow parade move thru my vision
'brisk eastern wind says rain' whispers a companion
'best be done with your writing friend'
so i close my book and put aside my worn pen
for the night
take the tiller
and make haste for open sea