I once wrote myself a poet.
I once claimed musing my medium
and creation complementary.
I failed in contemplation
and mistook my muse for a replenishing source of inspiration.
My fictitious claims clogged my metacarpels
with mismatched scraps of metaphysics
and mistakes written out and expounded without fault,
yet still incorrect in regards to truth.

I once wrote myself a poet.
Claiming creation was my destruction,
I failed to reminisce with blank pages
and remember our origin,
the original flawed poem posed in prose.
Words met the page before they came to mind,
ink like water,
my vessel was cracked
and I was spilt
before I recognized the filled binders stained,
before I recognized the broken seal leaking.

Emptying my head faster than I could move the pen,
I wrote myself a poet,
the lines were cramped with
messages left between,
I CLAIMED myself a poet,
and all creations were an extension of me.
My destruction was complete.
Flowing like fact,
I was held up by the people
I couldn't help to think of
with the break of every turning page.
Inspiration but desperation to
refill a tank of exhaustion
and minor miscalculation
when hesitation
became the transportation
for that dropping ink.

I once wrote myself a poet.
I once claimed myself a god,
destroying me to find a being
born from the pen
and suckling from a disembodied self
found at the fork of was
and have been,
some body got lost in translation,
the rest
was misplaced during the transition from wrote
to was, and back
to the road I traveled.

I wrote myself a poet,
became one
only to lose myself
to the title.
I rode my self,
a poet to an altar,
though during my final sacrifice
I faltered.

I wrote myself a poet.
I claimed myself creator.
I lost myself to show it,
skirting the opportunity
to prove myself orator,
and now I'm back to
reading between those lines
in hopes of finding
my self.
A poet.

Life.
4 Letters.
Numeric assignments,
I stall to answer
"what's the question?"
with
can you repeat,
my answer's too foreign,
conceptualization, it makes
sense.
Is, question or answer
deep thinking,
because the answer ran on
and on
until it was deemed compound
and split into finer artist pieces.
The question I just don't
get.
I'm stalling
to question statements
when I respond.
Numeric assignments,
4 Letters.
Life.

I

broken gasp,
ghosts struggle for breath
in empty-mouthed former selves

II

eyes adjust,
rebelling
against a storm circling
with dust and demons.
blind, but still searching
through the silence for
the rust-locked screams choked
in the throat of this machine

III

resonance ripples softly
forward
babbling over stones
and gravity.
something was always
pulling him down.

IV

tongue tumbles
trying to profess truth
as the river stumbles forward
to those speaking soothe.

Goodbye.
Yesterday, tomorrow
the life before was.
I’ve met you before

                                                                                        as we sat down
                                                           i watched worlds align
                                                               in your movements
                                                                                  and stars become
                                                     black                                           holes
                                                                                      in jealousy
                                                              you are beautiful
                                                                                        you are beauty

we drank the night
to day;
dizzy, star-struck,
watching time stop
in our swaying movements

                                                                                                  too bad
                                                          she couldn’t hold her liquor
                                                              our drunken timelines
                                                                   intersected
                                                                       in stumbled
                                                                           introspect
                                                                                      skipping steps
                                                           i enjoyed
                                                                         our spinning thoughts
                                                                  and tongues sharing
                                                           aged language
                                                   alongside new bottles
                                                                                  until i was forced
                                                           to watch her phase
                                                                            in and out
                                                                                           of herself

that moon *****
must’ve had more
than she could handle,
because the next day
there was a new face
on her course,
wasting happy hours
shouting sad times
to morose microphones,

                                                                                         if you fail
                                                                                           to sing
                                                               your anger will
                                                                   leave you to scream
                                                                       and shout
                                                       similarities
                                                            stunningly simple

masking taxation of
tie-ins’ infusion inbreeding,
demonization of sharing similarities
left time socially awkward
and unacceptably indulgent
of the mindless self

                                                                                 tonight i will
                                                                       join myself in song
                                                it will be a hymn
                                                     rhythm saved by him
                                                          we’ll circle ‘til its begin

we’ve refin

I felt the resonance of harmony
while the speaking of the walls
coerced me into a state of calm.
The object of my human side
is to find upon which line I lie.
Is it the one of psychosis
or the excitement of the third line.
Bi-polarity co-authors
changing connection
from subway stations
to the lashed lights
flashing to asteroid induced beats
breaking down into
the words of a typewriter
with transformative properties.
Night time stars shine bright with
knowligious screams from
millions of learnt miles
while oxygen conducts the brazed
grasslands into consymphonies,
leaving each branch scraping
so leaves may be allowed to applaud
the ever changing constants
of retold stories.
Calling to those intangible ideals
to materialize
and bring their followers
to comprehension,
it’s not difficult to see
that it’s there,
that insanity
spinning in circles
as it sings the newest top twenty,
or rather the bottom of the barrel.
The resin’s been scraped
and we’re supposed to breathe in
the words of artists
too plain to be humbled
by their works,
their fame
bred,
fed
and
condemned
by ego’s ever expanding.
Tangents are tangy after effects
of this twice smoked state of mind,
air thick with smoldering thoughts,
mindless devotion have
this current generation clouded.
Branded they’ve been
caught and tagged
at prices far too high
for the product not wanted,
brought by falsely peaceful corporations
which have us foolishly brandishing
dark thoughts,
shining guns,
and the faces of the dead.
When is the price too high,
or have you yet to realize
there is no price too high
for your sanity to relieve,
nor will it take lightly
a candy coating
for the daily vitamins
prescribed,
ensuring a sure glimpse of truth
beyond the walls of your Empyre.
Are your blinders to set to see
that your peace of mind sits in a glass house,
just a thrown stone away from cracking,
shattering what little tie holds you
to what you perceive as truth?
Can you imagine picking up those pieces
that were once your life?
Hard to do when you’re lost to vanity,
noticing only your thousand framed face
while blood trickles from your hands,
wounds winding the course of time
leaving behind verbose trails to aid
in your unbridled return to
the surface of sun-drenched memories
punctuated by foreign invasions
of advertised deaths.
You **** yourself to gain recognition,
but are resurrected by laughing gods
finding humor in your perceived sorrow,
knowing your story just another set of
one wrong placement, they push you
finding your god a benevolent being,
playing your suicide in reverse,
a miracle too large
to be measured on some scale,
the ripple effect of
performing just to flaunt.
Now born again,
you regain your militia’s
malicious status,
rejoining the ranks of an army
unheeded by threats,
torture,
pain,
or empathy.
They care only for members
and will be the truth
by any means possible.
Run along now,
you don’t want to be late.
The Masses don’t care
if you are left behind.
Have fun with
the like-minded “individuals”
as you agreeingly debate
the newest trends,
laughing at the means to your ends
you sit with your bleach-blonde brethren,
your Barbie-doll *******
and your bigoted behavior.
Just make sure you’re still laughing
next time you look out and see naught
but that thousand framed face.

Excuse me, if you must,
as the spinning causes seasickness.
Open the clouds as you continue on
in an aeronautical sarcophagus,
thirty-thousand feet
above broken land.
Grab your lover’s hair,
last resort to prepare for
the emergency crash landing
into mother earth’s disease,
or are they simply parting the seas,
causing darkness to spread
from the unfilled hole in their chest?
Stomachs turn as the
broken wings and sails
fall upon the shores.
An ocean of rage delivers
waves of hatred embraced.
The surf clears, exposing pain
and the premonition
of a cleansing blood red rain.
Shrieks of the banshee
and the howls of the hurt rise
to meet the clouds seeking
to brighten the days afar.
As thousands flee in terror
we make a toast in the French Quarter.
The chariots gain speed
and the wake gains mirth,
laughingly applauding
the approaching dark comedy.
The newly arrived antagonist
has forced the hero’s hand
and now she births forth
a wave of healing epidemics.
The wake’s in the wind
and the funeral’s imminent.
Its population’s been soothed
into a sedated slumber,
but our character has issued
too many warning,
and strikes deep at the heart
of this sinful city,
breaking apart the basin’s barrier,
and lulls its children back to sleep
with bloodstained lullabyes.