In a world of human wreckage,
one tree stands tall.
Distributing air for a no longer living population,
one that overstayed its welcome.
Destroyed everything they came in contact with.
Until it appeared that the tornado of life,
came plowing through.
Leaving a trail of broken dreams and sorrow,
in its place.
No one left to care,
no one left to clean up this dumb.
Destroyed.
A town destroyed.
A state destroyed.
A country destroyed.
A continent.
The world...
destroyed.
Animals left, no longer anywhere for them to survive.
Nothing.
Because...
In this world of human wreckage,
a tree loses its first leaf.

Its inside was never filled,
Never understood its kind.
Its existance was legit for it
but the other minds.

Supposed to be the best,
never made it there.
LOVE was only HE wanted
But refused to be granted.

The sphere was pretty indeed
and 'it' stuffed her with no love,
But hatred and Tyranny.
HE did no guilt.
Still,
The Justice was mere.

by Jedidiah Fleming

The World is my Kryptonite.
It was delivered by a Canaanite.
It is so very black and white.
Black as black midnight.
White as white starlight.
Hotter than a fist-fight.
Colder than a frostbite.
It tries to lure you to the fight.
Being naturally impolite.
Always swelling with pride and might.
Soaring like a meteorite.
Exploding like dynamite.

O, but it is a parasite!
Warping every human right.
Dealing every man-made fright.
Feeding like a scabie mite.
Destroying like a forest blight.

Yet it craves a ray of Light.

From it, I remain from sight.
It is worse than any stage fright.
A never-ending snakebite.
Seeing without sight.
Hearing without height.
Choking out the sunlight.

The world is my Kryptonite.
But parts of it may turn to Light.
So its pain I will carry on.

The moon shines bright overhead, gleaming and proud, the undisputed king of the night. But his reign comes to an end soon enough. Streaking colour shows its extravagant self meekly, under a band of presiding dark blue. The blue marches ever on, stately and cool in his mission. Where he is going I do not know, only that I can never follow quite as quickly. He gives way to dainty pink scars climbing the canvas, much in the way a mum gives way to a child growing in wisdom and in stature. The collection of onlookers isn't quite sure what comes next and hangs in celestial silence as the scene unfolds before them. Behind them, a quiet wonder turns the canvas from blue to purple. No one was more shocked than I to see violet light from the heavens in the face of a yellow ruler. The rebellious purple seems to realise his folly and quickly transformed into a pink of sorts, a much more agreeable shade for the occasion. I miss his first grin though, the unapologetic first hue, the dare to be new. From here it is slow going until it isn't anymore. I stare at the same striped world as handmaidens rush to awaken all who are needed for a sunrise. Even now I can see from where life will rise, such a golden carpet is already rolled out. It will be very long until he makes an appearance, but I shall wait. I will wait for him because he is my love, my heart, my one. I will stay all day and night to see him anew if he decided to stay away for a day.
My world is more sky than land, to which I am tied. Whether an act of mercy or pride, I see the sky every day from afar, always yearning to be drawn closer some day and find myself laying in the hands of the stars.
Finally the scuttling onlookers are rewarded with touches of heat and light and life from my love, and they seem to shrink away. Why would some run from him? What causes one to leave so enthusiastically when he has finally come? It's the jubilation time, what a time to be alive!
The moon hangs nearly where he started, dully marking the sky. Half proud and waning silently, he jealously slinks away, the only one who shines not at sunrise. No one sees him leave.

Of course I feel like dying, the world's only getting blacker.
Of course I feel like crying, I feel like a disaster.
I see the light through crimson eyes and that appears is red.
It's not hate, maybe its' rage, but I know my spirit's dead.
I take that back, that's not the fact. It's probably only sleeping.
Yet so much I look around and hope that I'm not dreaming.
Cause everything's not so painful and dark, not everything's a funeral
Just get out and smell the roses, this life is also beautiful.

I hate living in a society where the chaos is so cryptic and over looked by a overflow of major events and mass material. The chaotic tendencies of our nation is so systematic and crafted that most of us are able to feel unaffected. I much rather everything be ruthless and blatant so we can be aware that we're going through the stages of ruination.

The World lays its exaggerated, broken illusions of who I'm supposed to be
on the weary waves of my brain. I find myself torn between
my superfluous existence and the struggle of a mind craving tranquility.

The World lifted the veil and I can see the nightmare
of what we subjectively define as reality being poured into glasses,
we drink it to quench our thirst, polluting the magnanimous beauty
of our holy souls.

The World whispers its ***** secrets into me,
I no longer see what I want to see,
instead I float with the current, swept with the rest of similarly confused souls,
ready to merge into the sea of Self Loathing and Misery.

The World no longer paints my dreams in colours, they are no longer relevant,
everything is black and white just to further spite my confusion.
Dichotomy is the only answer
to the myriad of questions flooding my curiosity.

The World tells me I'm worthless and I am.
I accept your gentle embrace,
I revel in my own meaninglessness, a nobody screaming to no one.
I will never amount to anything and my life is no more
than a grain of sand in your vast desert.

The World tells me I no longer matter, I don't.
My gray matter is only a chunk of rotting flesh waiting
to be embraced by your mercy, death.
Even these abstract ideas, thrown around in filigree don't matter,
after all they only perpetuate the illusion of me.

The World I am no longer myself and I believe it.
I am the product of your words, the spitting image of your broken physique,
whenever I look in the mirror I see you.
None of these thoughts are mine, they're all yours, beaten into me
over a century, thousands of years  of evolution and here I stand
complete in your image.

The World tells me to get perspective so I do.
I see myself as a caricature, hunched over these blank pages
pretending I know what I'm writing about.
A heavy sigh leaves my body and  I can't help but laugh at my own ridiculous, petty  self.
I take a step further back and I watch myself watching myself,
One idiot looking at the first one, laughing. I turn my head and there is an infinity
of 'myself'', all of them cracking up.
It's pathetic because I am the one
drowning in my own mediocrity
while I find myself laughing to infinity.
Perspective my ***.

Hey World, I'm writing this super poem for you.

I'm writing this super poem with my life, everyday when I go to work
and 'pick' my dreams away.

I'm writing this super poem with an exaggerated sense of importance
because you are all so important to me.

I'm writing this super poem with super ink and super time because
clearly, absolutely, surely, convincingly I spend every nano second
worshiping your infinite grace and surreal qualities.

I'm writing this poem with super confusion because the fusion
of your muse with my poetics can only scramble together
stubs of rhyme and rhythm, repetition comes naturally
when you teach me that empathy means sympathy for the Machine.

I'm writing this super poem to praise your ultimate super creation, the Machine.


Machine, whose arms are molded to lovingly wrap themselves around me.
The right arm, religion and school strips me bare until I'm left servient,
ready to praise the left one, politics and consumerism.

Machine, whose eyes are never closed, gaze into the vastness of our beings
and swallow the forests of our souls. They are always on the look for more,
always vigilant and never ever ever satisfied.

Machine, whose arteries are the railroads, roads,
infested with locomotives, cars speeding towards their own meaningless end,
blowing and honking their horns
for they can't see through the thick veil of oozing smog.

Machine, whose veins are the internet, complex networks of web
trapping millions of disillusioned shards as they desperately try
to define their own humanity.

Machine, whose brain is capital. The almighty dollar, euro, pound, yen, ruble,
all rushing towards banks to ****, sweat, ***, ******,
birthing interest, famine, debt and helplessness.

Machine, whose soul is war, greedily consuming lives
to satisfy the eyes, arteries, veins and  the brain.
It's all in vain when death becomes a statistician, tragedy is numbed by the number
and the never ending slumber continues.

Machine, whose everything became my everything,
I can only find myself at ease when I please
with the entirety of my being.


I'm writing this super poem under the shades of a beat generation
because I find it resonates well with my vibrations
and I'm crawling, crawling, crawling towards your acceptance,
clawing, clawing, clawing through everything I am.

Hey World, I'm writing this super poem because I am tired,
beaten, broken by the endless charades you create
while I try to melt into the Sun.