I think what makes me the most sad is the world doesn't care how good of a person you are.

You can shake hands with all the people who are homeless named Mic, who fondly remember Mel Brooks movies, and you'll still find yourself left behind just like them.

Complimenting women's nails for their sense of style or telling the cashier at the dvd store that his up-sell is really good and it nearly got you with their sense of flow.

You never take their offer of coupons as what's the point on collecting relics of a time we've all already left.

Strong, sturdy, and silent is what the past is made out of, as there is nothing left to break the illusion of today.

Sturdy for no one has found a way to bring all their passion home.

Time can only stand still, and all we can do is move on.

A kindness forgotten: soft words and thoughtful intentions are what make me the most sad.

this time of compassion
my effort so small
ha   one tiny step

In the whirlpools, people puff
and scream for help
The spectators whisper

the last gossip
until the poets hand
shoves them away, looking

for the right tone
He's just messing about
because the Way is the Truth

of all votes against
Everyone gags for meaning
in a livable rhythm

Groaning, I hold on
They are talking about me
I hear it in the breaks

This is how it will go on
with an occasional blow
hoping it is a hit

It is fiddling and tinkering
keep breathing calmly
and not short-circuiting

even if
   i could
go back
in time
make changes
to the things
that didn't quite
work out
the way i wanted
have a second
   third
      fourth
attempt
at putting
something right
even if
there was
an opportunity
to make
the entirety
   of everything
better
i can honestly say
i'm not certain
i would

i've seen
far too many
films
and tv shows
about time-travel
to make me think
it's probably
a lot more effort
than
it's worth

love you the right to feel everything
love you the right to be wrong
love you some mercy

Just because you dont see any effort,
Doesnt mean its not there.

high above the river, from the edge of the cliff, one can
see the rafters in their inflated crafts, in the blue and
red and yellow ovals, bright and iridescent and suspended
atop the furious strip of gray as they wend below, lifting,

twisting, careening as their vessels sprout sodden arms that
grip scarred paddles, paddles that swing quick and deep  
into the foam only to then be held still and wide to the water,
a thousand rudders to navigate the rocks and avoid the

hard realities that rise in the shallows and are revealed  
without warning, some only to scream haplessly like
funhouse monsters, while the others lie dangerously quiet,  
unseen under the surface, until at river's tail the rafters

lift their oars in triumph amid the mirror-like calm, life’s
vagaries conquered for the moment