I am only an author of a voice to silence your worry.
Listening is not my virtue, it's bloviating my lure-y.
An appeal to be appealing has left me reeling
For lucidity in a city that has forgotten who I am
Which is me.

I am only an author of a voice so silent, so worry.
I hate to live in my mind, yet it is the ***** I scurry.
From my mind's eye's **** I suckle with fury.
Silver-tongue, golden-throated, and nothing else
To be spoke of. With my chest swelling; pleurae
booming with the boon of pride to ensure he
is able to amount to another morning rise.
Which is me.

Since when have I become so masturbatory.
They say youth is self-absorbed and centered.
So full of themselves they think of fireworks and glory.
But what of youth misspent, snuffed whence
They were in the first chapters of their story.
The forgotten rue. The golden rule.
Somewhat few, follow that truth.
Which is me.

Which is me, the me I knew, or what others, to me, show.
If my personality is borderline, and that is disorderly.
How is my fin not to be written as a tragedy?
Will they paint my funeral with superfluous filigree.
Recite a remembered, and cold opened eulogy.
For a man they did not know.
For a me I did not know.
Which is me?
The me I knew?
Or what others, to me,
did hew?

"Debase me!" I say
Burn me alive, for I did not live.
I stole from you, my cherished youth.
I am only an author, let me rejoice in my depression.
My writings are not narcissistic, hardly a confession-
I am a writer that writes what he knows.
My Socratic allegiance agrees that God is wise
And men, surprise, know nothing.
And if men know nothing.
If men know nothing.
If Man knows nothing.
Why are we so full of discovery?

Man may not find themselves but in a quandary.
Mine is this, and it haunts me unjustly.
Which is me?
There's the positive, the plural.
The public, the private.
The reticent and internal,
Jonathan.
But I am awash in my self without knowing myself,
Engulfed in my blood, my bacteria,
lacking opsonin.
I strike at my heart, my mind, and my tendon.
Uncertain of where I end or where I begin.
I am the stalking horse and predator
An author with no editor
Which is why my poetry is so sloppy.
If writers write what they know,
and youth is all for show,
where do those like me stand?
Are we plagiarists that copy?
Chameleons sipping coffee
Bloviating about the bouquet,
Abusing sophistry?
Do I mean to deceive, is it impulse,
is it instinct.
I must ask,
Which is me?

I am only an author of a voice.
Perhaps I am a mute.
So cut my chords, snip them clean.
Let me live a life serene, as I work and doddle
away with my pen mightier than sword.
Which is me? Who am I?
No Greek poets or philosophers
can define.
The one question begged to be answered.
I am me, who I am. Son of God.
King Solomon.
My sin is idolatry. The commonality of my age,
stuck in neutral of self-display.
The world fell into dismay,
split in two,
The Judgment of Solomon.
Will show which is true.
But even in this *******
Of rhyming, scheme, and infatuation
I've still yet answered the question on my heart
Which lettered the head of my distracting start
Who am I?
Which is me?
Narcissus drowned staring at he.
And left the Nymph alone, all alone
Lest I be as pretty, as the rippled reflection
in the Spring dew.
Let me hem, let me haw
Let me hew,
say what I saw,
and I stared at my reflection
staring at you.
Which is me?
Which is us?
This poem has turned
into an omnibus
for a worried mind
to letter and scatter
everything the matter
from a mind stuck
or struck
with ardent aim.
Which is me?
I sound with glee, an answer unto thee
I am an author with a voice.

Focus your attention somewhen else.
The somewhom you remember
is gathered dusty on the shelf.

Some other time.
A phrase some good, mostly bad.
Focus on the times in which you  had.

**** it. Keep in time, in the then,
forget the now and the soon to be when.
Get lost. *******.
Pout about it until you deign to sin.

Forget yourself.
Earn your regret.

I guess,
I'm rarely sure.

I’m an Anti-Social Socialite,
rocking new New Balances,
most of these Kids aren’t rockin’ right,
they’ve got too much ego & too few talents with,
attitudes that need adjusting,
in other words they’re not talented,
when I appear Haters disappear,
call that a Lover’s Magic Trick,

written 10 books,
and still don’t know what an adjective is,
it’s like we’re Illiterate Literary Luminaries,
walking paradoxes in a par of Croc kicks,

kinda like an Anti-Social Socialite,
or a wise man that’s lost it,
even though we both know we’re never lost,
because we’re always here and always on topic,

and you’re never late either,
because the time is always now,
and I do all these things,
even though I don’t know how,

wow,

I’m an Anti-Social Socialite,
rocking new New Balances,
most of these Kids aren’t rockin’ right,
they’ve got too much ego & too few talents with,
attitudes that need adjusting,
in other words they’re not talented,
when I appear Haters disappear,
call that a Lover’s Magic Trick…

∆ Aaron La Lux ∆

new book available worldwide: 8/8/18

Playing with words is one of my gifts
Poetry, prose, through pen or the lips

Let me show you what happens
What goes on in this brain
As I introduce you to the art of Wordplay

They march in - then beat, tortured, stretched, and broken
Completely dissected before they're respoken
All meaning pulled out, fully extracted
Give a word no mercy - just straight up attack it
Roll it over, spin it around, toss it up, smash it down
Play with it - make it move, hold it still
Like a cat with its mouse just before the ****
And when the word no longer resembles itself
When it's suffered, collapsed, gone through hell
Give it love, offer grace
Let the word have some space
Place it back on the tongue and see how it tastes
Then the word, encouraged, will offer something new
Will compel your lips and your jaw, your whole mouth to move

Something fresh will come out, unexpected perhaps
Spurred by the word and the knocks and the taps
at the door to your mind -
Same word.
Redefined.

It still fits
But now it tells a new story
Try it again - it never gets boring!

What once was unseen, unknown, and unheard
Has now been revealed by this old-but-new word

"What should I make of this?" many inquire
My advice?
Play with words, not fire!

Rote, just for you.
I can't help but
bear repeating.
What's gone cold,
is worth reatheating.
Speech is there,
in silence it drowns.
All I do is,
think and stare.

An eye for an eye,
across the room.
Or should it be;
A you for a I,
and I for you?

Greatest Ever (GOAT)

The greatest ever,
don’t hesitate for the Haters,
I stand here united in love,
while you’re divided as the Equator,

or better yet division equations,
no hesitations I’ve got now don’t care who has later,
baskin in the Florida sun while ballin’ in the fun,
on a beach in Miami with my belly in the sand call me a Gator,
got Florida sun shine in a New York state of One Mind,
in California at Greystone getting more wine from the waiter,
feeling like He-Man at Castle Greyskull getting great skull,
both reckless and tasteful variety the spice of life I like to savor,
and yeah they call me a player but better a player than a hater,
and yeah they call me selfish behind my back then face me and ask for favors,
but I cut through the BS with my lightsaber half Luke Skywalker half Darth Vader,
with no time to waste and no mind to spare so catch me now or see you later,

in the meantime you can find me at the beach,
between just laid and self made plotting revenges and favors,
went from being on the street on my *** with no glass to Best Ever,
fully clothed now with all the bells and whistles from minor league to major,

dressed the nines with my thumb on the button,
and my finger on the trigger,
and I won’t hesitate to detonate,
on any fool that flexes hate because I’m the Greatest Ever,

I’ll spell it out for you,
G.O.A.T.,
and that is the truth,
for real for really,
I’m the GOAT,
setting records and making goals,
so while all the losers are lost in hesitation,
I’m non stop always on the go,

the greatest ever,
don’t hesitate for the Haters,
I stand here united in love,
while you’re divided as the Equator…

∆ LaLux ∆