It's a kind of blindness,
never been there,
never seen there.
Not through my own eyes,
just in films and stills.

Even here I bring the blinds down
on native town and countryside.
Don't see what changes and what doesn't,
trying too much to cope with the present,
future and imagined virtual fights.

So what do others see? I can't use their eyes.
Can they be my spies? Can they infiltrate?
Can they secure my interests? Or are they
double agents for some other clandestine cause?

War by proxy,
the future of conflict
super powers clashing
on foreign soil
in battles fought by locals
divided into camps
pitted against their own
for differing convictions
not for the lack of reasons;
fuel to the fire added
by their recruiters
propaganda,
subterfuge,
subversion;
no need to worry about ordnance
and military hardware,
ammo and suplies
they will be provided
duly
by the sponsors;
the agenda is
to drown a patch of land in blood,
with an island built from bones
lonely in the middle,
just big enough for a g-man
to set foot upon,
tie the laces of his boot;
an then move on.
But what of all the residue?
Nothing goes to waste
all will be reused
blood to fuel
bones to amunition
surviving souls to generations of hate slaves

If you're elsewhere building an oasis
somewhere peaceful, someplace quiet,
watch your back and keep an eye
on the silent sky
there are birds of steel and wires
with their artificial brains
roaming, cruising, watching,
their senses and their talons
lent to their
puppeteers, mere employees
looking for a chance,
at that multikill promotion
fingers itching at the joystick...
but outside and back at home,
a prison cell of boredom
waits to chew them in slow motion
to the bombed and the bombing,
to the greedy and the mourning,
we don't call this life
hell is real
we're both prey and hunter
madness is contagious and haunting

Didn’t I ever think to be authentic
collecting words, snapping photographs
exclaiming I am enamored with language and art

when honestly, I am merely a fraud
to what I love. My hands aren’t stained with ink,
my eyes aren’t trained to learn new techniques
paper is not my friend nor is a roll of film
tossing around in my bag of nonexistent records that
I actually love my hobbies.

I feel that I am not quite
an owner of my interests,
stealing passion from others and wishing
they were my own.

I was thinking about my future 
and what I want to do
but I found I have no interests 
strong enough to hold on to.

Finding no pleasure in daily routines
Surprisingly treasured by the machines
Reminding you it's just the status quo
And part of the life in which we all grow,

Unsatisfied with droll simplicities,
You might indulge in distant fantasies-
Magnified on a world you set apart
From the forgotten one others have wrought.

An escape is often necessary,
But you can't forget where you still remain,
Though time you spend in either world's nary
Going to keep you entirely sane.

These choices you make are arbitrary-
Hopefully, you'll still be kept entertained.

I am barely surviving on a thread of superficial interest and the minute that expires I feel like I will too. And the list of my interests is getting shorter and shorter.
The stories
I once liked,
The sites
I once browsed,
The drawings
I once admired,

All slowly

f a d i n g  


f  r  o  m  



t  h  e  



n   a   r   r   o   w  




s    c    o    p    e  




o     f  





m      y  




m       i       n       d       .           .                .                   .

On this morning the sun rises,
And I leave my new bed.
I get up and go outside and the sun is warm on my head,
Oh the warmth. There are green hills in the distance.
I go to the tree and behold the blueness of the sky
And watch the sun rise as clouds are forming.
All is still and overhead a prairie bird flies.
There is a great field of wheat beyond me.
I lie down and relax staring up into eternity,
And I am already used to this.
I look up smiling and I can really see.
I wind up staying like this for life,
And I’ll never go back,
Back to my way of life before this field of grass I lay on.
It's all a vast encounter with nature.
It teaches me to release my fears and troubles to her.
As the golden sun warms my face, all I see is you.
And as its warmth enters my chest and warms my core,
I feel you in that warmth,
Her summer's beginning.

I wonder how others like their music
While I try to listen to every element of a song
Dissecting the cacophony of sounds
Appreciating what I didn't hear before
Do they dance when I lie in the dark?
Do they just listen or sing along?

I wonder what stories others enjoy
While I read a book over and over again
Excitedly the first time, rushing to the end
Slowly the second, savoring every sentence.
Do they like fiction? True stories?
Do they like to tell them or to listen?

I wonder (with amusement) what others do with their ideas
While I put them into the poems I write
Cursing my vocabulary for failing me
Struggling to find words every **** time
Do they post them on social media? Write in journals?
Do they keep them in their own minds?

Are they like me somehow?