Words, words, words
that words of time.


Speaks me up
that they might listens.


Draws me simple
that they may seen.


Use me well
that they would understand.


Write me gracefully
So, that I would be remember.


Of making great mind
A man with LEGACY ~ indeed.

Every day people astound me and I don’t know why.
They’ll astound me util the day i die. Why?
Don’t get me wrong, but where are the important people,
I wouldn’t know one if I met one. I’ve never met one.
But they’d be all that much more special if one appears to me ever.
I thought I found one once, then twice, and a third time, but before long they fell to ruin under the weight of themselves, they were abnormal and reality was normal, always clashing, and crashing, and bashing heads with each other.
I cry, oh how I cry for them to come back to reality where I am trapped. I see their reality and they do not. I wish I was like them. I wish I couldn’t see their faults and mine. As I slip away and their eyes glazed with rose pedals, I let out a shout! “Take me!” but their grins grow wide with sweet eyes and they drink my tears while I cry for them. I am sunk like a forlorn ship in the storm long ago. Like the sorrow they write about, I am that reality without readers. Unbeautifully broken. My story is worth not their hearts.

My eyes still close dreaming of you.

Lily erode
Eros rapture
To dust
To dust
To dust

"I am a poet"
That is what our ego tells us
What we tell others
What others desire for self
What we desire to hear
So they tell you that you are
Quid quo pro
We stroke one another
Manus manum lavat
When I die I hope "they'll" say
"A poet has left us"
But then as now
I will not know it

A story I read yesterday
about a father and son playing chess.
They were sitting over the board for hours now
arguing who is the king.
Which of those pieces wooden on that surface flat,
should be the one to be king.
The son was thinking and thinking, but he could not tell.
Troubled after a while he thought,
why his father asked him that.
"Who is the king? Who has always been king?"
Countless times before they played,
the question always remained the same.
The father, his son, he persistently asked -
who is the king?
The son like his father,
he wasn't an easy mind.
He wouldn't give up to a question so simple;
He was determined to prove his father wrong.
So many riddles by his father he cracked easy,
but this one, just wouldn't come to mind.
Protect it! Protect the king!
- said the father, with warm smile upon his son.
And the son deep in thought with fingers crossed
was just looking over the board;
..even more and more confused..
Moments ago I watched something.
It was a memo for a dead man.
On a beach that man was the father.
He played with his child around.
They were swirling in circles in the salty air,
before he rode into his last sunset.
Then the question hit me again - who is the king?
The screen went dark and the lights flickered to light.
Elevating murmur filled with clap, filled the room.
I turned back and I saw..
That father, that child, over and over again.
..everywhere, the whole room..
One jumping around, one sitting calm,
one excited, can't wait for fun,
the other just looking for his last piece of popcorn.
I watched upon those daughters and sons,
and then I realised who is the king.

When we're gone, will we be remembered?
Our gravestones weathered away,
Our ashes spread in the wind.
Some of us will be the unknown body in the archaeological museum,
Others will have rotted completely away.
All that's left of us will be our descendants,
And even they will forget.

So how will we ensure we're remembered?
Can we, will we, leave a mark?
Will we stand up for what is right,
What is fair, not what is easy?
Will we make our voices be heard,
Or will we let them be drowned out by greed and animosity?

If we stand up, make our voices heard,
Imagine what we could do!
We'd be unstoppable,
Remembered as the people who made true equality happen!
Leave a legacy to be proud of,
We'd be remembered long after we're dead.

The only way to be remembered is to make them remember,
So lets do something memorable while we still have the chance!

I didn't turn the faucet off
And thought about life flowing
How it can see me dripping hitting splashing and then going 
Only in the second there in all my glory showing 
But the beauty blends into the norm and life it gets on towing

I turned the faucet on
So I could hear it flow again
The weary travelers eyes focus on old light in a new friend
It's the same orange sort of glow comes after nightfalls had its end
And the drips remind me of the way this planet it's days sends

And we spin

Drip drip drip drip drip drip drip

And we spin, and we spin. 

I kick up the sawdust
So with the dirt I'd see the sun
And watch the pieces hang, floating silently and fun
Hoping knowing when they settle
This morning isn't the only one
Oh no, you all are just a bed for something only just begun

I start to make more sawdust
Building what? I've yet to know
But I know that if there's something there I cannot be a hole
So that in the same when I am buried may I not be cold 
And that sun will people sing of me, when my stories told

And we spin

Rip rip rip rip rip rip rip

And we spin, and we spin.

He follows in the footsteps of a dead man,
a wild man, an ill-tempered storm
who lashed out at the world so he wouldn’t conform
to the ordinary life from which he ran.

Now that man is dead as an empty beer can.
He follows anyway, trudges on through the lukewarm
waters in his wake; trudges on to deform
the monotony from which his life began.

He thinks he may as well be wed
to his drinks and his smokes and the girls in his bed
all faceless and nameless and only marginally alive.

He never wants to know that absolute dead
feeling that lurks in people’s heads.
He wants the blood in his veins to pump, his soul to thrive.