When writing out who you're thankful for,
So many names come to mind.
It's so ironic that it starts to hurt to realize,
Who stays in your reality,
And what a dream world this would be,
If in the same moment,
You also come to know the pain of those who promised yet never fulfilled those sacred words.
"I'll never leave you if you never leave me."
No wonder I felt like life never made progress forward.
It's been a few winters,
But I've see the holy ministry gather with my eyes in their gaze and silent whispers,
It's all about regret and wishes,
With a soulless daughter being passed around without permission,
And a son who can't see the sunrise for his future is as barren as his once bountiful mission.
I have seen the world inside of a man lost in depression,
This obstruction of feelings,
Choking seconds before air rushes in,
Like an ache for the next season before the snow crashes in my home,
And yet the phone continues to ring,
With the sound of heaven alone,
Like I've always been asking for my baby to sing,
35 floors and you could only jump from the second.
Captivating,
What your eyes used to see the world for became the poison you doused me with and I still blame myself for the death of not only my mother, but the funeral dragged down by eulogies from those who never saw her face when she knew her child must live without her.
For what prayers did you hold my name in while holding another?
For what prayers did that man give to see his reflection to know he existed as more than a passer by.
John Wayne novels always had November as the casting call,
I'm still wide awake writing my dedication,
And yet I'd rather have the silence of myself than the willingness of those who will walk out onto the plank and drown themselves in themselves.
They never turn back until they need you to save them.
This future between the sailor and his father,
That bait,
Raising a man into a child,
Recluse.
Venomously,
Each word we wrote to the sky.
I wonder if anyone else connected eyes the way we did.
And by we I mean me and my reflection.
It's the only thing left that stays with me when I'm ready.
Anyone who tells you to buy beauty forgot what you looked like.
It's always 1984,
Burning our house away before I even had the love to long for everything that was missing.
We miss one,
We miss everyone.
We miss the sunset.
We lose one.
We lose all.
I lose myself in the idea of losing everything,
And I lose everything when I lose you.

Is there perfection in imperfection?
Or is that just a personal projection?
I look at my own reflection,
With mental disconnection.
The only thing I see is rejection,
Everything needs a correction.
Especially my midsection,
There is no perfection.
Only objection,
To the imperfection.

Love takes time
Time to tear down
The false Gods
Polluting ambitious minds

Love at first sight
A dangerous ideological pathogen
Killing the truth in patience and effort
Ignorant to fleeting feelings of vulnerability

Love is surrounded by a toxic cloud
Breeding unhappiness and failed expectations
Quarantine zone and hazmat suits
A requirement for the truth about love

America isn't purple mountains and prairies
It isn't 1930's New York City
It's not marble columns and domes
It isn't crazy politicians and gridlock in Washington

And it certainly isn't Red, White, and Blue. Australia, Russia, Slovakia, and Great Britain are all red, white, and blue.
Heck, they're the exact same shades of red, white, and blue

America is freedom
America is tolerance
America is acceptance

America is about taking your traditions
And mixing them with the traditions of people around you

America is about saying what we want to
And not what someone else wants us to

America is about letting the people take the reigns.
"We the people"
It's the first line of the constitution

It's why we have memorials, marble columns, and congress

It's why people died fighting for it

Don't forget it

America is an ideal
Not a place
Not a person
Not an object

America is as beautiful
As we choose to make it
*what do you want it to look like?

A cloud drizzles drops of dew on a hypothetical mans head.
The car doesn't drive the engine,
        The engine drives the car;
A realist paints with love.

Maybe
I could write these words
In a way which would attract more people
But poetry is coming from a place deep inside,
And is very private
These words are mine


Expelled from my own
Somehow the only thing I will ever own,
But will hold
In a way
Only once

Behind the lime light of your computer,
You look a little like a self absorbed fool,
Hoping to be noticed by the next place
Seeking a cyberspace money making tool.

You see the world as a toy, one for your selfish
Gain. You look for a way to make this life
A quick stop to get your ever needy way.
Your computer over your fat belly, cigarette stains.

But this is not a toy, life is a serious thing,
When we take things for granted, make people
Disposable, it's for the sheer hope that if you're "king,"
Maybe the quick fixes will help us live your costly dreams.

Dear Youth of the Millenium, how are you?
What does our legacy mean to you?
We had ideals once, just like you,
Are you selling out to the system too?
Or maybe we just matured, you see,
Or was it the capitalistic economy?
We were the ones who stopped a war!
All ancient history, now times of yore,
Our ambitions we bequeath you, one day,
We hope the universe waits for you, on the way,
A letter to the future, over to you...
What does our legacy mean to you?

i am a passenger
free to roam on the east sides
of redundancy and table manners

flower markets thrive on dawn skies
arranged as tourist spots
the baker's fair selling eggshells
cracked on cobblestone soup
meatpies sold out too soon
appleseeds scattered for birds

i sweep them all up
and see patterns grow on my skin

let it not be said i did not try, i did not do
for too soon the the heat covers the shade as well
and not even the acacia can go without thirst

fill my cup with honeydew milk
and add bittergourd and salt

i can let philistine warriors come from the backroads
and enter the frontlines
if only to join you