That last one burned a hole in me
My cynic was running wild and free
Together we ranted about who is smart
We talked at length, what is art
I told him things I’ve seen, what makes me smile
He said he’d get back to me in a while

I’ve got 61 volumes, with over a thousand files
Some full of crying, some full of smiles
I’ve got volumes of love, volumes of life
There’s a lot about me, a bunch about my wife

I have a few funny ones, you know I’m a cynic
I’ve got rants about the world, everybody’s in it
I go on and on about people, all different kinds
When I post online, we poets share our minds

I’m always writing, since about 1975
It keeps me humble; it keeps me alive
Sometimes my writing is off the top of my head
I’ll be writing poems, at least until I’m dead

Contemporary madness -
Craving more - with no subtraction
    "In game?" - involve
    Participation - of the thought  
    Most mimic those who disconnected
    Most play as virgins - unaware
    Not daring to examine bearings
        Of social roles and biological demandings
        Of what is "Me" - not a direction - *****
        It teaches taking human role
        Humane is engineers laughter
        "It's sickening to see you choose an owe
        When you repeat same neural patterns"
        You peak plateau - a weary and indifferent
            Flaw - begs you to quit the brawl
            Unless you choose as part of the absurd
            A conscious action of self-talk
            With none of "I" from egoistic brothel
                At last to see the stupid joke
                With it they made a 'wear'
                Augustly awful is its fate
                So desperate to be the wearer

I don’t consider myself a cynic,
But I am not fooled by good intentions,
People lie,
All the time.
Is it purely for self-interest?
Does any good come from their interventions?
Who am I to say?
Each person has their own belief,
On the selfishness,
Of humanity.
I’d like to believe,
That there’s goodness around,
You may have to squint,
But I’m certain it can be found.
Isn’t it a depressing point of view,
To say that everyone is selfish,
And nobody cares about you?
I’m not overly optimistic,
Nor excessively pessimistic,
I don’t believe that I’m a cynic,
I walk the middle line,
Filled with nuance,
And confusion,
All of the time.

I reflect upon the season and memory of Christmas' past,
and I cant help but to wonder if this may be my last.

A thought not born of this season and its promises of joy,
but rather from the pained reflection I am no more a boy.

I think upon friends and family at distance from my day,
who I love so very dearly though they be so far away.

I find this season lonely, with a sadness now become its gift,
yearly every passing nearer to loathing has been my shift.

At an age now to be more a cynic than an optimistic man,
seeing only greed and commerce and not some godly plan.

A Christmas of my childhood, of love, good will and of care,
forever wish I for you all,
never knowing sadness and loneliness' despair.

-Now here is why I said that.

Think about this poem's title. Did you think it was something deep or profound?Did you think it was some great truth?
nope. I just took some words that sounded pretty and strung them together.
So why put your trust in words that you have no understanding of, but that sound nice, and persuade you into being content and not asking questions?

you're hurt

i can see that

you've become a cynical mess

people are evil

but i know that's how

you get your energy 

hold my hand

i'll hold it tightly

and never let it go

you've brought the sunlight back

just let me help you

i could if you let me in

i'm hurt, too

i give too many people weapons

to hurt my broken heart

but we can see the good in it

if i'm by your side

we can discover galaxies

we can lead the universe 

you and i