The stars do not fall
with our might,
the universe has motivation
of its very own:
possession is a mirage
that takes hold
we die when we die
but there will always be
an endless light
being fed to the living below

Where a mother just gave birth
in a dreary hospital room
filled with loved ones and flowers
next-door to a man who died
alone, in the peak of June
on that same day
with the same replenishing light
reflecting in a perfect sky:
meaning is an illusion
that we create

Why make sense of things
that are better left on the shelf?
Answers are bittersweet
figments of "truth"
akin to religion
and its unfruitful ruse
for it is no secret that language
plays a fickle tune,
each voice with its own sacrilege
to project as a catalyst
unknowingly for the downfall
where we all lose

To a bullish sense of self
deemed more important
as people shout and yell,
it's unbeknownst to them
that self-righteous anger
is also best left
on the shelf

I love, I love, I love poetry
more than acting, more than making films.

your ego reeks of ****
because you keep looking at me like that.
your ego reeks of ****
because it’s your favorite smell.
your ego reeks of ****
because my ego reeks of ****.

we are just mirrors,
wreaking of ****,
washing, cleansing,
but the smell never goes away.

the **** you love
is the **** I used to love when I was a kid.
all trends are patterns
repeating, repeating, repeating.

I love, I love, I love poetry,
and it reeks of ****.
so hard to clean,
but **** isn’t what makes me sick.
it’s the thought of it
being like that forever.

my friend once told me:
if it smells weird, if it smells good—
the smell only lasts for ten seconds.
so even though your breath reeks of ****,
that will change.

oh, you thought I was finished?

we no longer smell of ****.
we smell of the best soaps and shampoos
products available in our area.
(that happens to be Safeguard—
this is not sponsored,
but I always wanted a sponsorship.)

this is a poem, by the way.

stream of consciousness,
dictated through my voice,
since I forgot about this feature.

the ego does not smell like ****—
the ego has no smell.
what smells is your breath,
and that shall pass.
all shall pass.

as I pass on the baton
to the next muse of my inspiration,
I want to say:
your ego no longer reeks of ****.
but if it does, just wait ten minutes.

oh, you thought I was joking?
one more thought:

your ego reeks of ****
because your ego exists.
delete.
oops.
not sure if I’m using this properly.
anyway, I’m not going to edit this poem.

your ego smells like ****
because I made it smell like ****.
your ego can smell good if it wants—
like daffodils, cinnamon rolls,
whatever your imagination comes up with.

but I’m too tired to think
of what smells good besides soap.
so I guess that’s my favorite.

as spoken once:
roses really smell like boo-boo
—Andre 3000, OutKast.

once we realize
everybody’s ego reeks of ****,
we also realize
we can make our ego smell like soap.

and that is the end of the poem
(for now)
unless I come up with something else.

this is stream of consciousness—
this is my poetry collection—
and yes,
I’m a poet writing about a poet
writing poems about ****.
that’s not the point.

the point is:
if your ego smells like ****,
you have a lot of life to live—
for better or worse.

and my ego reeks of ****
the more I write this poem,
but it won’t
once I finish it.

so as I bid you farewell,
I say:
I am no Shakespeare.
I am no Oscar Wilde.

I am Andy Denson.
The next great poet of the world.
And even if I’m not, I don’t care.
Because at least—

my ego doesn’t reek of ****.

For Humans

What is most perilous
& chaotic?
Is it the ghosts? The viruses?

No
It is the self.
The Self.
The Brain.
A hidden sage
a wrecking ball
a firestorm in silence.
No alien force
could match
the tiny brain
the mighty peril of the human.

I hate this hunger, gnawing loud,
a whisper turned into a crowd.
I write for peace, for truth, for light—
yet crave the echo in the night.

A thousand eyes, a million hearts,
I want the world to know my art.
Though kindness rains and love is near,
still something selfish stirs in fear.

Why isn’t enough just enough?
Why does praise feel like fragile fluff?
Why do I ache for louder cheers,
when gentle voices ring so clear?

I count the stars, but chase the sun—
forgetting how the moon has won
my poems over with her grace,
while I still seek a grander place.

I loathe this thirst I cannot quench,
this greedy pull, this inner wrench.
Yet deep inside, I see the root—
a child who just wants to feel absolute.

But let me learn to love this pace,
to write for stillness, not the race.
To hold each word, each soul, each view,
and know—enough is something true.

Oh, my dearest Egooooo!
When you can’t squeeze through the door,
so immense and entitled,
I tell myself,
“That’s enough!”
No more confetti and fireworks!
Haunting me over a lost chance.

The Magnificence of Doubt—
what if I were…
Soundless compliments
only to be pinched and ignored later.

From now on,
I celebrate my mediocre greatness
with a crown of fool’s gold on my head…
yet throne-less.

Some falls, invisible success,
and unfulfilled hopes,
which, surprisingly,
made me stronger.

Oh, the Irony of fate!
All these sleepless nights
for this Wisdom?!

Evil is a man in a suit who has no face.
He wears mine, he wears yours -
He keeps them in a book
To select ego-mask disguises.
He is the man who runs the trains.
He is the man who strikes the deal.
Who stares back from the mirror?
External devils are poor scapegoats,
Useful fearmongers for the preacher-kings.
Look within. Delete your disguise.
Evil is a man in a suit who wears your face -
Do not let him control your hands.