We all stumble through life
Lost on winding trails
Disconnected from the destination
Which pulls the soul
Down a path barren of beauty
Where downed trees create barriers
Roadblocks which lead to detours
Into the rugged wilderness
A trial that tests the mind with adversity
Begging the body to halt its course
To cool the crucible that has bled
Molten rivers carving ruts
Into an endless circle
Leaving us lost and out of breath
Desperate to pause and recover
The stamina wasted in a maze
Of our own creation
...
Until finally, a beam of light
Breaks through the dense canopy
Proffering warmth, peace, and solitude
Beckoning a return to the tracks
Worn by the forgotten footsteps
Of a different time
Too distant to elicit recollection
Yet somehow familiar and welcoming
For those seeking the forbidden happiness
That we have trapped within a sadness
Foreign to the natural nature
We had suppressed in order to feel free
...
Long have I sought the trail I thought lost
Turns out, all I needed to do was turn around
And remember I am not alone
Just simply facing the wrong direction

You probably think
that I go around
thinking about how
Bukowski would approach
what I'm trying to say
well, I don't.
Yes, he's my favorite poet
and I respect his work
and the amount of honesty
he puts in his words
but if you think
that I don't know
that he *******
sprinkled on his work
and that he exaggerated
his life style, stories,
poems, novels.
then you haven't
read enough
of his work
(or mine) to know
that me and Charles
are nothing alike
and that makes you
irrelevant.

A sack of flaming dog ****
on someone's
welcome mat
ready to be put out
by the home owner
who will stomp you out
look at their shoes
and look at you
rinse you off
with the backyard hose
and forget that you
ever bothered him in the first place

within a couple of weeks.

And that's what makes you
my eternal enemy
because no one cares
about your opinion
of my work
and how different
and unique it is
from Bukowski's.
And if that's true
then the chances are
no one else will either.
God has doomed me
to be a hell of a writer
who can see right through
your lavender
infused poetry—
Leave it for the tea bags.
That's the prospect
I'll have to live with
as I am right now
at 4 am
while I stare at the walls
my dog twitches
while he sleeps on the floor
and while he dreams
insomnia
keeps me company
while it rains.

Oh, and *******.

Always autumn in me
The plunge to the ground
The pull of the wind
I approach the end as autumn does
Slowly,
                    
                     Lingering in cold mornings

Never winter in me
Never snow or ice
Always only the movement towards
If it is autumn always
There may not be any spring
One cannot be reborn
                     In such a chill as this
There may never be summer
                     In such a wind as this
Autumn in my soul
This movement unto shall be enough for me
                     This movement unto shall be enough for me

A hero may wear a cape,
But that doesn’t mean they’re Superman,
They all pale in comparison,
Just another human,
Whether a man or a woman,
Their motives hidden behind their ribbons
Trying to make the world a better place.

A hero may preach peace,
But that doesn’t mean they believe it,
Often it’s just about their image.
The war must go on,
Never will everyone be happy,
There’s too much to complain about,
To be ungrateful about,
To not see the beauty of the planet we call home.
The hero may say they are against this complaining,
Yet, you see them in the streets doing the exact same thing.

Never meet your heroes,
You realize how much you inflated their heroics,
When you meet them in person,
You see how, perhaps, they weren’t a hero at all.
They aren’t a villain,
Just not a hero,
Not what you originally believe,
Yet you convinced yourself they were perfect.
Perfection is a losing game.

What makes a hero?
What makes someone noble?
Or have honor?
Or courage?
People love to play these roles,
Put them on like a wolf in sheep’s clothing,
You can always spot a fake,
They just feel disingenuous.
How can you have honor,
And preach your mantra,
Yet cut in the lunch line,
Like you’re better than all of the rest behind you?
That’s not honor!
That’s being a two-faced dishonorable fraud!
Like so many people,
Who wear the “honorable” facade.

I wouldn’t call myself honorable,
I’ve done things I’m not proud of,
Made mistakes I regret,
Have demons in my heart,
Who remind me where I misstep.
I refuse to identify,
As something I’m not,
It makes me feel icky,
Dishonest, and like a fraud.
Who relishes this feeling,
Of lying for qualities they don’t have?
What do you gain?
Recognition?
Fame?
All temporary in the grand scheme of the game.

A hero isn’t pure,
They’ve done things they despise themselves for,
Yet they try their best,
To not make the same mistake again.
They try to make a change,
Instead of complaining!

A hero isn’t good,
Or great,
And certainly not extraordinary,
They’re decent,
Down to earth,
Understanding of their faults,
Yet they push forward anyway.
They try to please people,
Not worth their time,
All in an effort,
To see them smile.
They try to save people,
To far gone to save,
Yet, they try anyway,
For they can’t accept,
That some people can’t be saved,
And are lost in the darkness.

Nobility,
Not kings or queens,
But high standards and ideas,
Yet to be expressed,
They haven’t found the words.
A hero has morals,
One’s that won’t change,
Based on who they talk to,
Their code remains the same.
That’s what takes honor,
That’s what takes strength,
Being yourself despite the gremlins,
And the goblins,
And the orcs,
Being yourself,
No matter who’s watching.
“With integrity and honor,
For people to see.”
Words long forgotten,
In our memories.

Integrity requires honor,
Which requires being noble,
Which goes hand in hand with courage and bravery.
A hero is all of these things,
Combined into a pie,
And though we humans try to replicate the recipe,
We end up exploding the kitchen,
Leaving fallout in our wake.

To me the idea of a hero,
Is more reliable than seeing it in reality,
Someone so honest,
So kind,
Understanding,
And always fighting for what they believe is right.

A villain is a hero,
Just for the other side,
With other motives,
And ways of working things out,
And the hero is the villain to the villain.
Who is right and who is wrong?
The common question.
Often times it’s not so black and white,
Nuances aplenty,
If you open your eyes.
Some are just cruel,
But some have a reason for the heinous actions they do,
Occasionally,
I root for the villain.

We may come close,
But we will never see the perfect hero,
He’s already left.
While we wait,
We can dream,
And aspire to be,
Like Superman.
As the old pledge went,
“When no one else is watching,
It is up to me!”
And so it always will be,
For each of us is the hero in our own story…

I’ve decided I’ve more things to say,
Thoughts wishing to escape my brain,
Whether it’s wrong or whether it’s right,
Prepare for a third piece of my mind.

Is it just me,
Or is communicating,
The hardest trial of life?
Living isn’t hard to me,
It’s coexisting that’s filled with strife.
Trying and failing to express ideas,
In a way that makes sense,
That they can comprehend,
These abstractions of thoughts in my head.

Talking is hard,
Especially when your mouth and your brain,
Aren’t on the same wavelength.
You think one thing,
And say another,
Leaving nothing but shame,
And discomfort.
Sometimes you say the wrong things,
At the wrong time,
To the wrong person,
Such is life.
They push you away,
You feel regret,
Part of the process,
You can’t take it back.
Apologies are just more words,
Added to the wound,
Actions are more powerful,
For better or for worse.

There’s something mesmerizing about the piano,
One of, if not, my favorite instruments.
The piano can make me happy,
Nostalgic,
Sad,
Or bittersweet,
All with a couple of keys.
How powerful when held,
Hearing the strings ring.
However,
I prefer the sad piano songs,
They do a perfect job,
Painting the scene,
Of bittersweet contentment.
The somber melodies make me long,
For those early childhood days,
The ones I rarely remember,
Basking in the sun’s rays.
How miraculous,
And part of what makes the human experience so grand,
How these feelings can be stirred,
From a few notes played,
On a grand piano.

To fit with the tradition,
I’ll quote a song by Alec Benjamin,
This one titled,
“The Plan,”
This is the chorus.
“What I wanted then isn’t what I’ve got now,
But if I did it again I wouldn’t change it anyhow,
I had a vision in my head,
I even wrote it all down,
The plan didn’t work but it all worked out.
The plan didn’t work but it all worked out.”
This song laments on how plans can change,
And paths we’re lead can be different than what we imagine,
Yet, even so,
The path we’re on,
Is the one we’re meant to walk
I agree…

Sometimes it’s difficult for me to distinguish,
Between an acquaintance and a friend.
Is it based on time known?
Or the quality of the relationship?
Or how well you click?
Or do I just overcomplicate it?
Sometimes I wish,
I thought less,
Because sometimes it seems,
Like a curse…

Here we are at the end,
Another poem at its conclusion,
My mind feels at ease,
Finally feeling included.
Only one more piece of my mind remains to be said,
The rest I’ll keep hidden in my head.
Farewell,
Until next time,
Where I unleash,
The final piece of my mind…

My imagination!

It’s a wormhole,

an escape hatch to the only dimension

where everything is as it should be.

All is fantastic there.

There, I dream of places of rare beauty,

I experience feelings of the greatest intensity,

I meet the most awe-inspiring people.

My imagination is

where time-travel is possible,

where astronomical distances shrink to nothing,

where immortality can be achieved.

My imagination,

where would I be without you?

What would I do without you?

How could I survive without you?