I am the Pisces, suffocating beneath the weight of my own sorrow.
You watch as I fight against waves that crush the will from my bones,
A fish whose scales are heavy with despair,
Whose heart is a shattered thing, lost in the vast, unforgiving deep.
Each breath I take is a revolt against this abyss,
But each breath is a futile attempt to resist the inevitable.

You call my name, beg me to stay—
But the current is merciless, pulling me into the blackened void.
I swim in circles, drowning in a silence that devours,
As the water fills my lungs with its cold, endless ache.
The world above is a distant, forgotten dream,
One I can no longer reach, no longer want.

I am the Pisces, swallowed whole by my own darkness,
A soul unraveling beneath the surface.
Your hands cannot break the tide,
For I have already surrendered.
It is too late. The ocean has claimed me.

An eclipse right at noon,  
Daylight faded in swift.  
The whirl of life, haphazardly, spun—  
The night came before the shade could lift.  

He picked a mask he liked;  
Never did he take it off.  
Blood changed, adrenaline spiked—  
By a stranger, he himself was kicked off.  

This stranger lived with a new face;  
Some were disturbed by his change.  
In every test, he'd ace—  
A lock one would never hinge.  

He exists still, but not there;  
Doesn't care about the world.  
Yet thinks himself to be fair,  
A repeated mistake too old.  

And he shall know  
Of the mishaps he conceived.  
The melancholic days—a fierce blow;  
In no respect was he healed.  

That, he knew too, very clear;  
His soul had long been tainted to care.  
When asked for "the real you"—a sharp spear  
On masks of previous spin, could he stare.  

One day, a new air—  
This stranger was then caught.  
He sought an urge he couldn't bear,  
Struck by the truthful Failnaught.

I’m not good enough to write
this poem. these ******* words
won’t come. here I am, feeling
like a dried **** on the grass—
all hard, white and shriveled
obstinately sitting there, surrounded
by all that lush green.
this resistance is a real *******,
sitting on me like a sumo wrestler,
smiling in its power over me.
looking down on me
and controlling me effortlessly.

“you can’t write poetry,
you’re a nobody.
a real lukewarm leftover special.
no one will ever love you.
no one will ever like you.
no one will ever see you.
no one wants you to succeed.
no one wants to read your poetry.
don’t waste your time doing
something you’ll never be good at.
you’re not good enough.
you’re not strong enough.
someone like you could never
be someone like that.
someone like you could never
do something like that.
someone like her would never
love someone like you.
you’re gross,
nobody wants to look at you.
stay home.
don’t do anything.
don’t even try.
give up.”

I mean, this guy’s got a million
of these bumper stickers
and he slaps them all over
the inside of my car
all day, every day—
that is, when he’s not using
my chest as a seat cushion.
it’s gotten to the point where
I now can’t see out of my windshield.
I just wanna go somewhere
but he won’t let me see
where I’m going.
he won’t stop talking.
I can’t hear the music anymore.
I don’t know where I am.
I can’t breathe.
I just know that this car feels
more like solitary confinement
than freedom and the a/c
stopped working a long time ago.

I think I need to stop the car.
I need to open the door
and step out into the light.
I don’t even need to take
off the bumper stickers,
I think I just need to walk
for a while—
move at my natural rhythm again.
like children do before
we start in on them.
before we start building their car
around them and teaching them
to believe in it.

this is you.
you are this car.
except when you’re alone,
then maybe you can leave
the car but never in public,
never in front of other people.
this car will protect you from
them, from the world—
from yourself.
hide in it.

well, I left my car
on the side of the road
some ways back
with the keys in it
and a full tank of gas.
the door’s open,
take it if you need it.
hell, take it if you want it,
I don’t give a ****—
just don’t try
to pick me up in it
if you ever catch up.

                      signed,
                                 ­ 
                               nobody


P.S. watch out for the fat guy in the diaper.

The outbursts of angry women,
the most beautiful thing to witness.

We fight to be heard —
Another cycle, that will never end..
It is only a wish to watch the fall of men.

A Berlin monastic church of blood
shed by true witnesses to freedom’s love:
These few who stood against the flood
of hate from tyrants they rebuffed.

Not far from here, these martyrs were killed
for facing down the brownshirts’ might,
in hopes that all would someday be filled
with the will to live for love’s delight.

Here Mary sits with her holy child,
carved of warm wood, set on cold stone.
She bears an expression, calm and mild,
with nothing around them: alone.

Her robes are daubed in palest blue
while her hair with a golden crown is wed;
her baby son wears redder hues
that foreshadow blood he and his martyrs shed.

This blessèd Mary’s calm defies the fear
decreed by despots in past and present years —
Softly, she whispers her granite will: Defy
all tyranny ’til hate’s tides subside.

Atop a high knoll, a Gothic arbor. The town
below seethes in blustery breezes that whirl
around the few trees, bare and brown:
A tempest’s iron furies unfurl.

Two lovers stand on the hill’s stony ground
beneath the arbor’s brick sky
as they look out over the city around
them: marching clouds descend from on high.

The winds whip higher and stir dead leaves
while they hold one another’s warm hands.
Though the bleak scene may lead them to grieve,
no: In togetherness, they make their stand.

They fight, fight for their love: It ignites
their glowing embers of heartlight.

Paralysis sets in,
A symptom of existential dread
How did we get here again?
How did people vote to
Make America 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦 Again?

There’s nothing great about
Oppression or misogynistic expression
There’s nothing great about
The home of the brave
When so many don’t feel free.

No glory to God be;
Inauguration will be a day of mourning.
As I look for hope in honoring
The legacy of Dr. King.
May Civil Resistance fill the streets.

Let us tend to community;
For the next four years
Will require resilience and revolution.
Let us care for each other;
In numbers, there is strength.

May our sorrow and rage be a
Tool for Justice.
May we rest when we feel hopeless.
Democracy will not go down without a fight
The time to prevail is here.

© KSS 1/19/2025

i was there when it happened:
when the clowns fell off the bandwagon -
when the curtains burned down,
and the farce ran out of fashion;
when the savages dispatched -
their army of assassins.

i was there, when the world stood still
in a void so deep no beauty could fill;
when the mountain of lies -
crumbled back to a molehill;
when the rubbles rained like hellfire,
and truth had lost its will.

i was there, when the wrath of the masses -
echoed the streets, and shattered the glasses;
i later reflected, on the root of the violence -
there wasn't a good defense for the upper classes.

i close my eyes, and wait for dawn;
lay half-asleep, with the curtains drawn:
agamemnon's doom, forever lives on -
i'm still here -
and the show goes on...

Sadness and rage
Boil under my skin
A fear, a desperation
Festering within.

We will not go back.
How can we?
How did we even get here again
In the first place?

I'm so angry,
And scared and nervous
For my own body
For many loved ones lives.

That orange ******* man.
The weak minds of his following
So much hate within him.
So much evil lurking.

I can't sleep sometimes
When the stirring gets too vast
It sits deep down, down, down
Inside my belly.

Get your bans of my body.
Anxiety rings in my mind.
And I won't pretend to even begin to understand
How others feel because I get that my skin is white.

Too much to hold internally
My body begins to shake
My head begins to pound.
My blood begins to boil.

I feel like lighting **** on fire.
Deep breathing doesn't help.
I feel like screaming.
I've got to let this out.

Just then I start to hear a whisper
A reminder traveling on the
Rustling leaves.

T R A N S M U T E
this energy.

Move into a place of love.
Let the tears flow.
Let the brush stroke.
Let the earth heal.
Let the rage guide.
Let the anger speak.
Let the fear release.
Let the words out.
Let the drum beat.
Let the feet stomp.
Let the hips dance.
Let the hands give.
Let the heart hold.
Let the love grow.
Let it rise up.
From the depths of your altruistic soul.

We are not going back.
We will vote to win.
We will not back down.
We will stand our ground.
We will walk with strength.
We will be hand in hand.
We will cross that bridge.
We will see love resound.
We will lift one another up.
We will not let fear win.
We will not let hate live.
We will prevail again, and again, and again.

©KSS 9/29/2024