I'm sick of writing about winter,
I'm sick of singing of Christmas,
And when my dear mistletoe lover will come.
If I have to find another word to rhyme with snow,
I might just bury myself in it.
It'd be kind of ironic you know,
Just think of all the places I still have left to go.
Please leave nativity to the other poets,
Don't expect just because you ask for a happy winter's poem,
You'll get one out of me.
Because I see snowflakes as another way to freeze,
And I see images of people, hanging from the Christmas tree.
So when comes Christmas Eve,
I will be sitting in my home,
By the fireplace,
As those less fortunate begin to freeze.
For, how can we have a rich holiday,
With baubles of silver,
And ornaments made of gold.
When the unfortunate fight for warmth on the streets,
No one will give them presents this Christmas.
I would, but even for a young man,
I've grown frail and weak.
I can't make it through a flurry,
Much less a proper Christmas Eve's storm.
Though, the way things are looking,
It won't be a white Christmas at all.
Children will bundle up,
To go play in the dead grass and mud.
How enchanting is that,
Christmas day green as a creeping ****.
It's scary when the pictures of Christmas you know,
Just look like something Hallmark would want you to believe.

Gently, my love
When you stay up late combing your mind for pieces of rot
Gently
When you stare into ***** mirrors and scrub yourself raw
Gently
In a brash sea with your periscope on danger
Gently
Riding the crowd in the nose bleeds of opinion
Gently, my love,
Lean into the frisson
Gently with grace
Gently,
My love.
Gently with grace

I desire to create,
What remains unperceived,
Unrepairable faith in it's authentic self,
Unscathed by anothers opinion or morals,
Their hopes and desires,
The birth of such a rebellious idea remains unearthed,
I want it raw,
But God despises it,
The idea of being challenged,
So all left of my thoughts is the binding vision of tomorrow,
A vision of hope,
That ensues an ameliorating repercussion on my mental capacity,
Concluding the idea of a saviour,
And Of my passion and greed,
Greed to learn something I shall never master,

George Washington never saw a funny movie.

Culture had not knitted lightning into now, yet,

when the leaven in my bread was just a ******
beasty idea attempting to pass Jesus is Lord testing

half-way through today, right now, middle
of everything that's going on in and
around the whole internet connected reality,

right now,
we have magic in our qwerty trained brains,
we can recall the music, baddabumbaddabum
baddadabadah bump, p-ting

college prep

learning to type, mechanically, like a machine,

some one far more famous than me,
told me in print that no real poet types.

I found him poetically unqualified to prophecy.

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my opinion i
don't care what you think i could
be wrong hahaha