My body wishes for nutrition,
but it does not know the meaning of frugality.
Only my mind knows the meaning, and keeps my body at bay.
My body will say,
"Feed me, feed me, feed me!",
but my mind's rejection will not falter,
for the Happiness of my love
makes the means to receive it without err.

The leaves are tumbling
through homes of old
and hardship and cold.
The trees are dieing.
The leaves escape
through neighborhoods sold.
Graffiti and glass
cover the asphalt,
exalting these homes of old
and hardship and cold.
The leaves rustle by,
but break under shoes
of forgotten crews,
but cheer has spread
thanks to these leaves.
The kids laugh together
and live life with ease,
without regulation
and not being controlled.
They fend for themselves
in these homes of old
and kinship and cold.

In the hopes of melodramatic expression,
We use overused combinations of words
To cook overcooked works of "completion",
But we never truly grasp
The hand of death,
Nor have we truly grasped
The possibilities this universe,
Or even beyond what this universe,
Provides.

We bounce the ball of clever word-play
On the playground of our understanding,
And though our playground's small,
We aggrandize it to be more;
In our heads, it reaches the shore,
And we play even in the fall
When we're not supposed to, sanding
down the ball with our bounces and our days.

Whether we wish for certain weather
To rain or shine on our heads,
Few will have that weather affect them
When they do not wish it so,
And they will be in the know.
They will hear the thunder through their phlegm
And they're the only ones to tell of it on their death bed.
They're the true poets, not us, whose spirits are still light as a feather.

A
                     Two-
             Horned
     Figure*
Takes
Notes
On our lives
And see our days
With      husbands
And       wives and
Kids       that will
Grow     to know
Of his      existence.

"Harbor away my guilt, oh please.
I'm folding my hands and on my knees,
But if you can't, then through the trees
I go so that I may meet the seas."

"Harbor away my guilt!" I cry.
I fold my hands as body lie
on dampened pillow with dark sky
illuminating its bluish dye.

"Harbor away my guilt!" They hear,
Yet plenty scared to dare come near.
They fear that they may commandeer
The privacy of the man in tears.

"Harbor away my guilt," He wrote.
He put on his suit and then his coat.
He walked through the trees, those saddened oaks,
And became one with the sinking boats...

"They're awake while we're sleeping," we said, we said.
While we were sleeping, we bled, we bled.
We awoke in the next,
according to holy text,
in heaven with Jesus. The wine, the bread.

"They're awake while we're sleeping," we read, we read.
"I didn't expect it," we said, we said.
They slit our throats,
put us in boats,
after taking us out of our beds, our beds.

"They're awake while we're sleeping," they jeered, they jeered.
"We got them so good!" They sneered, they sneered.
"Imagine the cries
of their daughters and wives!"
They laughed so hard, they teared, they teared.

'They're awake while we're sleeping,' They thought, they thought.
The desire for sleep was naught, was naught.
Death was their fear,
what made them tear,
and suicide suited the lot, the lot.

"They're awake while we're sleeping!" They cried, they cried.
Dancing in circles. They lied, they lied.
They lie to their prey
Before they lay
their heads to rest, to rest.

"They're awake while we're sleeping!" He said, he said.
The TV announcer just led, just led,
The people to believe
the children and leave
them alone while their plot to thread, to thread.

"They're awake while we're sleeping," we believed, we believed.
We thought the children were grieved, were grieved.
We didn't give it thought.
We thought we'd rather not.
Because we did not
give it the proper thought
Our death we let them perceive. Perceive.

A string of words that flow like the rivers,
Showing enough thought to provide the shivers.
Reflections of the poet within,
The type thrown out in the garbage bin
Or the type framed and hung on the wall.
There's a poet within us all.

Not all are eager to show their inner poet,
But would rather let it set sail
As rivers stream from their eyes
Due to the symbolic lie
They believe, making them pale
As, with their sorrow, they wallow it.

Patronizing executives and farmers
Believe their exterior would be shattered
If their inner poet let slip.
Once somebody gives them lip,
They harden as if it mattered
And equip their shields and armors.

The Spartan with the inner-Athenian
Would be killed by his friends
If they knew who he was on the inside.
This fills him with fear.
He keeps his ears open to hear
If anyone is coming as he hides
So his poetry will have its end
Before this war with the Peloponnesians.

Such beauty gone to waste
All because this facade of masculinity
Everyone puts on to protect themselves
From the beasts in this society
That would love to shatter those dreams.
Artists should gather in teams,
Ready to fight this anarchy
That would place our poetry on the shelves,
Collecting dust with haste.
*Collecting dust with haste.