My middle-aged boss Ted was a wise fool,
He got married to an original
copy of his first wife Jane,
He was a selfish lover,
She trusted him and always looked thoroughly unhappy,
They had a loveless relationship
Pamela,her twin had stolen her husband from her,
It was an open secret he and Pamela had been lovers for a long time.
She found no better revenge than to give him to her,
They had an amicable divorce.
There was deafening silence when he came to the office with Pamela,
She was painfully beautiful,and hell's Angel,
She was like the man she had married
We were used to his typically weird behaviours,
But,good grief! This was worst,
It was crash landing.
Both were terribly pleased with themselves.
We had no choice but,to congratulate  them,
It was an era of free love.
Before the marital bliss was over
she took over the reins of the office,
She started with veiled comments how we worked,
Then came veiled threats,
Next she lectured us on business ethics.
The pretty ugly lady had lost her head,
Ted,the big baby was forced to do nothing but watch,
There was a minor crises in the office,
The staff alone together resigned.
A small miracle happened,
Ted lost his cool temper,
He wanted his imperfect perfect wife out of the office.
He realised that their similarities were different,
You have to really know someone to understand they were strangers,
The evil genius had transferred his business and house in her name,
He was speechless.
A story told in silence,
For him it was the coldest day on a summer's day,
A common raven sits on his own faeces.

write something beautiful,
they ask, beg,
threaten.

but i feel so utterly,
so utterly,
uninspired.

the ink is running off,
and dripping to the floor.

beautiful women live in my head,
beautiful melodies play through it.
yet nothing beautiful comes to mind.

tired eyes stare back at me
-because this beautiful summer life is dying.

there is so much to do now,
and i can’t seek out inspiration.
i’d have to hunt it.

i’d have to save this part of myself,
immortalize it in the fabric of my clothes.

i’d remember it in class,
starring out the window.

i’d remember it in winter,
wrapped in a sweater’s embrace.

and then it would die in the spring,
the most beautiful season, so they say.

i
hate
it.

but i think for now i’ll immortalize this moment,
with the hate and fears,
with the threats and the fame.

because i’ve written something ugly.
this is my reminder.

there was a time
i used to think
a Persian sunset flushing pink
was beautiful-
now i prefer
say an old marsh
with ruffled fur and
stranded branches,
bleached and queer,
like antlers of some
mythic deer.

everything grows,
no bad thing is forever.

Kids are cruel,
Realizing you'll never be a ladie's man,
Twelve years old,
Over looked, walked past as if I was laundry,
On the floor of a lackadaisical bachelor.

Questions begin to whirl,
Is it you? Is it me? Am I not physically capable?
See I am as beautiful as my confidence should make me,

Right?

Loneliness heavily consumes the boundaries of confidence.
Build your home on stone,
Raise your flag through the tools of war,
Be the loudest war cry so each maiden takes notice.

But I am not a soldier on the frontlines,
I am the poet, in the jail cell writing "The flag was still there."
Staring at the mounds of bodies of more able bodied men than myself,
Holding it in place.

Ramparts are the beating of my screaming heart,
Bullets sent straight from my mouth, tear through the flesh of those who find love to be aloof of,

What creativity truly means.

It means you watch from the sidelines,
While the quarterback walks away with the girl of your dreams,
Soldiers wear uniforms that gleam, sweeping a woman clear off her feet,
Bar fight heroes win her heart by never seeing defeat,
Drug dealers and users trap her with promises they could never keep.

Yet here I am, still sitting in my seat.

There's nothing wrong with making believe,
I guess I just find myself pondering,

It's probably me.