The raindrop
Stands alone
Then escapes the cloud
Like a skydiving soldier on mission
Whose face is proud.
It stands alone
In its descent,
Only to embrace the ground
As if it had a hand to hold.

But the earth is dry
And land is cold.

The rain drop is simple
And cool at heart.
Its thoughts so fickle
To make the foolish smart,
Yet I sometimes wonder
Were it sentient would it ponder
The significance of a lifetime between earth and yonder
And the sentiment of finding a purpose fonder.

For we are all like raindrops solitary
With a finite life span, temporary.
Some stand alone, and some find another
To join together and become stronger.

The lonely raindrop stands alone
But every raindrop makes the planet whole.

Mother Earth awakes, smiles at thunder
And says, “Mr. Lonely Raindrop: you have a home.”

There lives a woman who
Seems mystical, even mythical
--It is true--
Because she is biblical;
Rarer than a precious jewel.

She is virtuous
She is loyal
She is courteous...

She is royal.

She shines brilliantly, like a star cluster trapped inside a room.
She glistens like jubilant sun rays dancing atop the ocean.
The wind of her voice sets inspiration in motion,
Like a sonic boom.

She is powerful.

She is virtuous,
Who is worthy? Just
Wonder & coil
In a corner & toil
As you ponder this.
And honor this
Acknowledgment,

Because she is royal.

Don't dare compare her to the likes of
Nefertiti or Isis.
They are not so estimable,
You couldn't buy her even with a million zeros before the decimal,
Because...

She is priceless.

So the King adorned her,
Because the King adores her.

She is beautiful, so they say,
But such a meager word could not suffice,
Because her true charm emanates like waves
In the ardent expression of her practice of life.
And from her mind and her soul.
Her precious heart--more precious than gold--
Looks like a kaleidoscope of rare gems,
Darting dazzling colors; the spectrum in whole.

Diamonds die in comparison,
Hand her a diadem...

She is special
She is jovial
She is gentle

She is royal.

She is not haughty,
Nor does she flaunt like worldly wenches do.
She tells girls who've been told they're peasants they can be a princess too.
She is not naughty,
Nor does she taunt like wanton vixens do...

Because she is godly.

Yes, indeed there lives a woman who
Seems mystical, even mythical
--But it is true--

She is virtuous,

She is royal...

She is you.

A butterfly flutters through the streetz,
Above the dried bloodstains;
Its wings bat away toxic breaths
Perverse and untamed.

A butterfly flutters through the streetz—
Great beauty of little worth.
Through tear gas, dodging bullets
With wings like the Fellbeasts of Middle-earth.

A butterfly flutters through the streetz,
No smile, no glance, no words to speak.
It wipes away a child's fresh tear
As it passes by its cheek.

Where have you been,
My long lost love?

Has anyone seen
My long lost love?

I long to know your state,
My long lost love.

And to find your estate,
My long lost love.

We were once united,
Bound in love
Ecstatic, excited.
A life now unheard of
I awake aghast, affrighted.

Awaiting a letter from you
Blown in by the breeze.
Far between and few
Are the days of pleasant ease.

My long lost love
I sorely miss our affinity.
And I sorely miss you,
My long lost love,

Creativity.

I’ll never forget that day

When she lifted her head from the bed in which it was buried

And with bloodshot eyes reaching through 2 black holes

She asked, “Why’d they have to **** my brother?”

That exact question was already in my mind.

Happy Easter

It is the 23rd century,
The other rebels are showcased in the penitentiary
In the city’s center street
To gratify the remnants of the sensory.

They’re beheld through double-paned hybrid walls of palladium, aluminum oxide and diamond;
In each cell their own reflection’s seen

Endlessly.

There is no blue sky, no scent of trees;
The cells’ sounds rebound and resound

To promote censoring.

It all began in the 21st century;
Now, ancient relics are kept in a technological cemetery,
Guarded by a sophisticated sentry.

Unbound knowledge damaged our brains,
Progress became our shackle and chains.
We—humanity—became dependent like a candle and flame
And gradually, drastically, society managed to change.
All who resisted were banished in shame,
Then our history was lost; I’m lucky to even know my family name.

I am the last rebel.
I know of tambourines, timbre and treble.
I know of beauty that once made men tremble.
I know of the past gods;

Before we made the last devil.

Now we are the drones.
We mass-produced their bodies, now we are the clones.
Now they think, speak and feel for us—we are just bones.
We built our father’s house upon these rocks:

We are the stones.

If any should read this before the ripples of time dwindle,
I’ll be plain: we surrendered human expression to digital signals and symbols.
We once made music from thimbles and cymbals,
Praised the Lord on the timbrels,
Shouted aloud atop the shingles.
It was all so profound, because it was so simple.
Eventually what the experts, geniuses and pros found
Was a way to hose down

A waterfall.

Now, propriety is: No psaltry, poetry or piety.
The cemetery holds the devices which ushered the end of society.
But I have seen them;
I devised a scheme to sneak in silently
And study the history privately.

I was stunned. Stricken, as with fear,
And for the first time in years
My eyes leaked with tears.

If I could talk to them,
If I could ask a question,
If I could somehow call,
I’d ask why—just why did you allow it all?!
How could you not foresee the downfall?!
Why did not some societal siren sound off?

Speaking of sirens...
Oh, no...
They’ve found my lair...
See, this is why I’ve found fault!

Now I am a rebel—a renegade—forced to live like a groundhog

Simply because I seek to enlighten and warn all,
Like one who foresaw
The siege of Warsaw.

If this is ever found, preserve my last words:
LONG LIVE THE REVOLUTION

Signed,

The Last Outlaw

Reed Jobs X

They climb up each wall, curved like the sun's breast,

At sunrise.

Then crawl, listless, to the rough ledge

To commit suicide.

They plummet.

Taking my aspirations as they dive.

Two teardrops with crushed hearts,

And, now, crushed heads.

Sunset.

You awake from sleep hoping it was all just a bad dream.
As you open your eyes,
Reality is staring you in the face
Like a growling tiger
And strikes your heart,
As it implodes within itself.

Solace comes down from the sky;
A calmly chaotic cascade,
With scattered whispers & sighs.
A delightful dance displayed.

The ground becomes satin sand,
The trees adorn in white gowns,
A peaceful hush wraps the land
To harmonize the night sounds.

"It is bleak, too cold and chilling!"
Some complain with awful groan;
But, see, that's the standard way of living
When you've spent your years alone.

Silence floods your position,
As you evade the mental cuffs
That try to blur your vision
Like the blitz of falling fluffs.

The world is calm, safe in harness.
Crystals kiss me as in love,
Melt when they absorb the warmness
That this world could not remove.

In this world falls are painless;
Frolic freely for forever
In beauty painted paintless.
Thrills triumph there together.

The Passionate Pen
Pulsates with luminescence.
Its source transcendent,
Pages radiate, injected with ink incandescent.

The sun squints when the strokes soak.
The sheets must be sheathed in a quote's cloak.

'Tis no quill
Taken from a bird's nestle.
'Twas a thrill
To concoct the ink, with a firm pestle.

Lava for determination,
Stardust for high hopes,
Starlight for inspiration,
Glacier water for rejuvenation,
A drop of the Savior's blood for salvation
And a speck of His sweat's salt for eternal preservation.

Finally, I siphon a raging scream of emotion
Into the cartridge to keep the mixture in motion.
Swirling like undercurrents of the ocean.
Merlin has never known so potent a potion.

An elixir of passion.
I mix it with passion.

The pen glows
And throbs with a tempo.
It plants seeds,
Watch the stems grow.

The false poets—watching at bay—
Flock, & they say,
"Long live the Passionate Pen!"
As, once again, the Passionate Pen
Conquers the day.

Tell your leader
I am deranged,
Sick with fever
And out of range.

Tell my lover
That life has changed
And, undercover,
We are estranged.

Tell your neighbor
I am afraid,
I cannot stay for
The coming raid.

Tell your leader
I'm just a man,
A fellow bleeder.


Because you can.

Welcome to the picaresque, pick a risk then pick a rest. Make sure it is picturesque. Flick the pest, the child who’ll grow to live off trysts and slit her wrist. The usual for the unusual, victims of the few who shall use you all. View a child atop the hugest wall. We used to bawl for him to come to a stall, now we call for him to make a move and fall. Stay there, son. A weird son, aware some. Beware ****, he’s fearsome. So veer from the glossed frost on the dross. See the tears run from the pail tossed. Speak of your fears none while we await the pale horse. Run your frail course, walk the trail lost and hail costs. Still, it’s to no avail, boss.

Loss.

This is … a verbal Picasso, an herbal antipasto, a historian’s emporium showcasing ancient fossils in a Costco. The VIP is reserved for the lost souls… who know they’re lost souls. There’s a red carpet with a tar pit leading to the flying car market. Prospects get a starter kit if they can test drive and park it on target. Watch out for the Barkets, zombified studs and starlets who’ve lost wits—walk into Target, get a guitar pick to shave their armpits and use a hair to floss with. Mark it; don’t forget or ignore this flawless gauntlet—you could call it an ornate orchid—designed to sting like hornets and upset and offset from the onset. This is … a director on set, an astronaut prepared and all set—just hasn’t launched yet. A gambler who never lost bets or brought debts. A fish who’s caught nets, a hostage who spoke threats, a treasure in a closed chest on a tall crest above a forest.

No rest.

A small test against the zest of this poet’s. I’ll pass the test then pass the test to the next. At a desk impress, confess or jest your best. Dress the mess in less and less duress. Address the text, your stress prevents success. Press, don’t guess—think steps ahead like chess.

Yes.

I used to ride through cities on Shadowfax, now I ride through on shadows’ backs. With a daunting scepter, haunting specters with shallow laughs that strike like a jagged axe. A gaze that stuns, and burns like a graze from the sun. Yeah, a scowl from beneath a cowl, as I growl, howl and prowl on a brazen run. On a mission to save the sons, and save the daughters—the sacred ones. I am the likes of Vader’s son. Sent by the Ancient One (not Doctor Strange’s one), I came tamed, unchained, trained with a light saber and a laser gun. Steel teeth, quasar gums and a razor tongue. Peering where the Savior hung. Praising with a raging lung. Fist raised with a flaming thumb. Dangling from an aging rung. There is nothing another man can save me from.

You got something to add? …

Save me sum.

Channel your energy.

Then don't change the channel.

Channel your energy.

Then don't drain the channel.

How does it feel to feel stupid?

How is it, to be unappreciated?

What's it like to be unwanted?

What is the greatness of being ignored by all?

All the while enchantment dances in your eyes as you behold her ...

Tell me what it's like,

Diamond in the rough.

I get lonely
My heart starves for love till it gets bony
Isolation is my bestest friend
Solitude is my next of kin
I'm like a tiny cloud that floats through a blue sky
And gets ignored by the news guy
I am a broken leaf that floats down a cold river
My heart has become so frigid my bones shiver
My teeth chatter, my voice quivers
No grass grows,
the wind blows,
this is my soul's winter

Treat her like a queen,
Be her best friend,

See her like a dream,
& cherish her breath's wind.

Treat him like a king,
Be his best friend,

See him like a dream,
& cherish his breath's wind.

Have you ever realized ... that there are people who die alone?
Precious humans who pass just as they lived: mere decaying flesh and bone.
While we hope to die with things we own
A precious human dies unknown.

Unknown.
Unknown.

We study to create clones,
Then eliminate the original with drones.
We never find those who roam;
Our searching’s only done on phones.

Today they die alone.
Today they die unknown.

A girl, downtrodden and somber,
War-torn, no mother or father,
Tread the desert to wander
And find a drop of water...

Collapsed along the way,
Abject misery on display.
Such pain her soul fled away.
A vulture’s meal her life served to lay.

Today she dies alone.
Today she dies unknown.

With trembling hand and speech that’s terse,
I’m sorry that I could not reverse
Your horrid plight—or perhaps a curse—
With a pen or pathetic verse.

Today they die alone.

Before you get caught up in the rapture of romance,
Remember that the origin of every devastating heartbreak is beautiful.

The tragedy of naivety.
The calamity of familiarity.

This warning I submit to you,
Gatsby.

There is a phantom man
With a crimson hand,
Breathes the chill of doom,
And carries a bag
Shaped like the crescent moon.

The living never feel the bite of his breaths
Their own breaths continue when he causes their deaths
His maneuver goes unseen, as it affects
Us who frown often,
But we feel the effects.

I noticed as a child
How he snatched the verve of adults who'd smiled.
They betrayed in their knitted brows
The years of attrition
From being smitten down.

With these tasks to accomplish,
He employs an accomplice
Or several he'll send
—Whether friend or stranger—
Till the task meets its end.

One once came then flew on the run,
Just went I thought her job was done,
He went and sent another to claim,
The remnants and dregs
Of what might remain.

This world keeps beating and pounding my soul,
Seems I alone know this phantom man's goal,
But why others support his cause I don't know;
Now his bag drips with blood,

Because I lost my smile many years ago.

Where has the fire gone?
Extinguished by exhalations of exhaustion.
Cut down like grass on a lawn
Is a once lush poet-tree of creativity.

Did I heed the signs of caution?

Drowned by disappointment and shame,
I emerged alive, I survived,
But my hopes could not say the same.
They settled with the sediment,

Oh, how I miss when they thrived!

When did it occur,
The moment my heart was drained?
And who was the one to procure
The passion with which I was fashioned?

From stained glass to broken glass, stained.

The inventive ambition has waned,
The glowing spectrum has faded.
I pray all will be reattained.
For I am overworn and forlorn;

Once sculpting precious gems, now just simply jaded.

Die from mortal wounds
Or die from starvation

Die the death of debt

Which doctor
Is not a witch doctor?
Surgery on your security
Held at knifepoint,
Savor the scalpel of rich robbers

The nurse
Is a curse
To your purse

Drown in blood
Or drown in bills

The Hypocritical Oath prevails

Dread the eruption of poor patience.

Flowers bloom,
Susie notices,
While the weather looms.
She blithely sings,
"All is sunny, despite the heavens' gloom..."

But, near a tomb,
Old Man Witherspoon
Says it only spells of doom.

With spirited skips
She twirls
As her hair billows and whips.
She courageously croons
Songs of praise crawling from her lips.

But, near a tomb,
Old Man Witherspoon
Yells, "All only smells of doom!"

Then the storm clouds corral
Them both and open fire
Like a showdown at the OK Corral.
Witherspoon bawled: "You're happy to die?!"
She countered: "No; but die happy I shall."

But, near a tomb,
Old Man Witherspoon
Shouts, "Your death only tells of doom!"

She heeded no single warning.
Blissful, the winds lifted her
Into the dark morning.
See, Susie had determined,
"If I must die, I will not die mourning."

Meanwhile, above a tomb,
Old Man Witherspoon
Cries, "Life is merely tales of doom!"

Then suddenly, beneath a fine awning,
Susie's eyes flashed open
To embrace the dawning.
Her frantic pants were slowed
By a gasp of yawning.

A new aura filled her room,
Her bed caressed her
As her mind began to zoom.
She arose in shock by the beaming sun
And the flowers' bloom.

See, Susie never heeded a single warning,
She ignored many blessings—
Until that morning.
And from thence determined,
"If I must die, I will not die mourning."

Susie leapt & left from that room,
And ventured somewhere—
It was near a tomb.
She sat next to Old Man Witherspoon
And crooned a tune: "All will be sunny, despite the present gloom..."

The sun rises, like a spaceship launching,

Slowly, its manner is like tales from the ancient Crypt—haunting,

Yet bursting with joy, like newlyweds on a honeymoon.

It races

With determination

And power, like an Olympian, the horizon is the finish line it runs into.

The stars exit the heavenly theatre,

Applauding the night's enchanting dancing,

As one sun ray penetrates a window pane

To make a tear drop glisten

Like a glowing diamond bouncing inside of a glass prism

To bring beauty to a widow's pain,

Next door to a glass prison

Where the evil of humanity sits contained.

And when mankind passes by

And peeks inside

Their eyesight magnifies

To be reminded to control what they have inside.

A butterfly frolics above the daylight sparkling on the ocean,

Its wings paint the air in fluorescent colors with every motion.

Magnetic forces rise to battle,

A leaf gallops through the grass as the wind rides its saddle.

The Monopoly man at the podium proclaims our lives are full of duty,

I stand and reply, "Our lives are full of beauty...

You heard wrong..."

Behold, musical instruments gather to listen to the bird's song.

For the grand finale it catapults into the sky, five furlongs.

Spiraling, its tail emits a paint flow,

Leaving a trail of rainbows.

Majestic.

The phantom of the opera is king of the land.

His scarlet robe flows for miles,

Crowned with a ring on his hand.

At the beach shore, stardust is mixed in the sand.

The grieved lover weeps, mutters,

After he was shot to the chest,

But the bullet melted and dissolved into his flesh,

To protect his heart as it recovers.

The magician slips & falls,

Exposing his deceptive tricks & cards

And knocks down the psychic, shattering her crystal ball.

Bewildered, their eyes lock & meet;

Aghast.

Until an obscure man approaching hands them the Book of Prophecy.

At last.

Redemption.

The trees bow and toss ripe fruit at the feet of the peasants.

A rain cloud in the city is rebuked as unpleasant,

Then escapes to be adored by a man stranded in the desert.

The flower bud undresses.

An epiphany hits the fugitive then he confesses.

Love reigns, because lust is unworthy.

Society drinks an elixir consisting of justice & mercy.

As he beholds the splendrous sublimity of day morph into dusk

The skeptic realizes that the true source is above.

Dropping to his knees he cries, though his eyes fight,

His tears on the ground reflect the twilight.

As night falls,

A star smiles & gazes at the stargazing child's eyeballs.

They sparkle and glitter, immense.

The angels observe and shiver, in a sense,

Inspired all the more to guard her innocence.

Her giggles travel through the air,

Touching & comforting all who happen to hear.

The moon takes its place to conduct the night's dance,

The sea settles in a slight trance.

The winds chant saying, "look with your heart and you'll see

That planet Earth is an art gallery."

And one hopeful star throws a dream across the night sky

To remind us

That life should

Be protected,

Because life can be beautiful,

And that beauty is often unexpected.

Her eyes are glowing rubies

Her hair is crimson; flowing beauty

Her aura is an avalanche, the snow ensues me.

How, oh, how could this happen to me?!


Her smile peels back the curtains on the sunshine

And pulls open my chest, like Clark Kent's shirt when it's punch time

Then caresses my heart as if her love was mine

And she would never know

But that is much better though.


Her face glows

Her shape flows

She makes me wish I could see her face at every day's beginning and every day's close.


How could this be?!

I despise romancing!

What potion has entranced me?

I never believed in love at first sight


Until I saw her.


I do not believe in love

Except the agape kind.

But every time I see her

The image remains branded on my mind.

I see her smile expand to fullness in slow motion;

Memorized.

Mesmerized.

Terrorized.


This is impossible!

I am a Stoic!

And yet,

I am a poet.

I could see beauty in the hideous,

Draw meaning from the frivolous,

Confound the wittiest

But now I'm just an idiot.

Because instead of harnessing beauty,

Beauty has harnessed me.

Just days ago, she sat in a car with me

But if she ever knew these thoughts, she'd stay far from me.


I write this in hopes to expel this foolish infatuation

Of a hormonal child awaiting maturation.

See, she makes me think of a life that is merely a fancy,

The simple thought of her makes my heart get antsy

I don't know why, to me, she seems so beyond the usual

And the fact of our different races makes it all seem even more beautiful.


I will look away when in her presence,

Even as I exchange a sentence

No more to be subdued by her essence

And feel like the lowest of peasants.


I do not need her
I will not seek her
I will not flee her
I will not squeeze her
No reveries of a life of me and her

She brings me from equilibrium to ecstasy at her leisure,

And this


Is why I hate to see her.

He saw starlight in her eyes.

All he had known prior was the anguish of isolation and loneliness. His youth was a constant gauntlet of rejection. A heavy heart beat in his chest pumping caustic fluid, scorning his mind. Flowing into his tear ducts, causing him to cry acidic tears. Leaving scars that penetrate like erosion in his flesh, deeper with each tear; carving his own paths of pain. Until…

He saw the sunshine in her smile.

Her name was…
Dream.

She was the hope he’d held, come to life. He gazed into her pupils, as though they were gateways to another dimension. A dimension where they two only existed. With galaxies in arms’ reach, on an island amidst a nebula. Her skin smooth, radiant as pure gold shimmering in the light of high noon. Her hair like fine silk flowing like a glorious cascade…

Her presence consoled him.

They met like two lovers destined for bliss, whose fate was inscribed in a timeless novel. He saw the part of him he had been missing when he saw her; and she saw the same in him.

And so their love began. A love so pure that they were cleansed of all mischief and vice. So rich that they would never lack any substance of holistic companionship and intimacy.

Or so they thought.

It all began when…

He saw starlight in her eyes.

Abandoned.
Engulfed in the empty black of deep space.

Drifting.
Slowly drifting.

Breaking.
Swiftly breaking.
Perpetually. Due to the last seen face…

… He saw a black hole in her eyes.

Her name was…
Resistant.

She was opposed, obstinately feeling…
He was shattered to the core, each shard constantly peeling.

His heart was snatched from his chest, thrown to jackals,
How could it come to this? He was wholly baffled.

The love that would never end became the lie that would never end.

The love that would always be became the love that never was.

The everlasting pain marinating his entire being, till the steam of anguish seared the inner of his eyes. Causing them to pour forth sorrow; salty, bitter sorrow for him to eat.

He ate nothing else but the sorrow which he brewed.
He despaired of life, until…

He saw the face of death.

Four hundred words.

An army equipped for battle.

An arsenal fit for war.

But alas,

That is not what the power of words is for.

Confusion and mayhem are the devil's doing,

The same are the Lord's eschewing.

Yet, for what cause are we using?

As words broil above the bent brow,

An acrid substance is sent down

And spewed from the mouth to destroy.


To destroy.

To destroy.


If words could sprout wings

Would a dove soar from your garden,

Or would a dragon roar from your dark den?

Words could set free, if you hearken;

But would you condemn men, or give pardon?

And if you doubt the depth of this which I write,

Recall the tale of Edmond Dantès' plight.

If you knew words could mold hearts like clay...

What would you say?

Your words can frame a day;

To deplore

Or to enjoy.


To enjoy.


So rare, yet so common.

No other creature on Earth wields words,

While we waste so many so often.

We become hardened,

While our mental fortitude is softened

To the likes of cotton.

Feeding from the bottom,

Surfeiting on forbidden fruit gone rotten.

In a radioactive wasteland

Where toxins blossom.

We harvest poison petals to season food that tastes bland.

With withering, quivering, hand

We feed our neighbor.

We don't sense the flavor,

But still savor.

A cyclical process,

Implementing the secret of conquest:

To desensitize.

Because, all the while, we do not realize

We are blindfolded.


Blindfolded.

Blindfolded.


A spring spouting tainted waters

Sits amidst our town.

We gather around

And guzzle pounds

Till we nearly drown.

You can hear the sound

Of the concoction roiling

In the aching bellies

As people lay sprawled and toiling.

Survive today,

You may.

And thrive nevermore.


Thrive nevermore.

Nevermore.


Begin again,

My friend.

Examine your quiver,

Is your bow for a hero

Or for a killer?

I beseech you,

Enter the palace

And drink of the chalice.

Learn to live in a world

Of goodness and balance.

And forget not,

A word spoken

Set the worlds in motion.

Do you still doubt the power of words?

Whence come your society's norms?

Or know you not how created things gained their forms? ...

If you persist to deny,

If you refuse to be swayed

About the power of words

You will yet believe,

When you've felt its blade.


When you've felt its blade.

Its blade.

My bones are diamond shafts.
Each eye a sapphire gem.
My blood is liquid rubies.
Dare I divulge my name?

My members, a master's crafts;
No bacteria, germs or phlegm.
I live free of formal duties.
Shall I flaunt for fame?

No epiglottis or voice boxes,
My heart's a rocketing comet.
No esophagus needed to imbibe,
I just absorb—like the perfect heist.

Hunted by shamans like foxes,
Fronted by the pickpocketing prophet,
Who've seen what I now struggle to describe:

A human creature reborn in Christ.

Every time I see her
My heart breaks beautifully,
Like an egg hatching fluorescent colors
In an achromatic world,
And bleeds desperate hopefulness
That never evaporates
Because the air is saturated with wondrous destiny
That causes hope to thrive.

Sweet symbiosis.

As premonitions explode inside my chest,
Shooting stars travel down my legs
Because I've seen her again

In a tale told by an alchemist.

I do not sleep.
At night my mind is spry
And taunted till I nearly weep
And cry inside.

I've traded my eyelashes
For weighted bars;
I'm dreary as the day passes
And siphons my strength in jars.

When, at last,
I find my slumber,
I wake and crash
Like roars of thunder.

For, whether at noonday's height
Or in the hour of stars,
I dream of fright
Till I can feel the scars.

As it's born, a second dies
And I feel the pain;
Because when I lie & when I rise
I feel the same.

I long to write,
But know not what to speak.
The will takes flight
But the wings of words get trapped in my cheek.

And now I strain
To force effulgent streams to drain
But only muster dull couplets which remain
Too plain.

Jadedness has invaded my brain.
Taken hostage my passion and pleasure,
Stolen my creative treasures.
Now I am traumatized. Will I ever be the same?

Today I was reminded of America's greatness.

The greatness that is truly just an idea.

The greatness that is truly fickle.

Fickle enough to be crushed by a mouse's nibble.

That a caricature could become the leader of the free world.

Indeed, the world will see how free we will be.

I was reminded that we are mentally enslaved.

To a media onslaught that trains us how to behave.

We are conditioned, on our own conditions.

We relinquish critical thought for a pre-programmed intuition.

Welcome Mr. President, to your dining table.

On it you will notice a sumptuous oyster,

The world is within.

Treat it carefully.

Or don't.

The choice is yours, sir.

The consequence is ours.

Because we love propaganda

More than a proper agenda.

We fiend to be the rightest

Instead of being righteous.

And we're eager to give a piece of our minds,

Instead of gaining collective peace of mind.

Welcome American people, to the first day of a new legacy.

A new tragedy.

"And his voice carried on."
The words echo like a spirit through the air of the desert land.
They continued the search for him at every dawn.
All that's endured are legends of this special man.

The village awaits, while the trekkers search ... And search. They tarry on.

Spent, they return as the sun sets ... The town chants: "And his voice carried on."

What was once a world of blue and green is now arid & bare.
Society collapsed under the weight of false ideologies and greed.
Souls are choked in the grasp of a common stare.
They starve for truth more than any carnal need.

And his voice carried on.

They've heard his words are power.
They've been told his voice has golden wings.
They've heard his essence towers.
They've been told and told ... They've never seen ... They've only been told these things.

Civilization is naught but a sentient species stained.
Only a village remains.

The villages tarries on.

They used to scorn him.
Now they mourn him.

The trekkers search on,
In pursuit of the fountains that flow from his speech.
As the people thirst on,
Desperate for the day he comes within reach.

He is alive.

And he is free.

He thrives.

I know it ...

Because I am he.

The last poet.


And his voice carries on.

Their love continued.

Shining gloriously–not like the sunlight beaming through a stained-glass masterpiece, but–as though the sun itself were enveloped in stained-glass.

They were inseparable.

Their hands interweaved like the strands of the most symmetrically crafted royal garment. Golden, the strands. For when their hands meshed it was as though they fused into one effulgent organism of affection. Generating waves of love.

Their hearts were intertwined.

They danced on the rising horizon. They slumbered on the sunset. They kissed the stars, between each other’s lips. They held the summer’s warmth, within their embrace.

He saw the sunshine in her smile.

He saw starlight in her eyes.

Until…

A new acquaintance entered their lives. A villain of indifference. His name was…

Distance.

The summer’s warmth he once knew soon became the chill of early autumn. The hand he held became a key, hidden in a repository of antiquity. Her voice, once a spectrum of color, became like the dullest gray.

He saw dark night in her eyes.

His world collapsed.

… Falling and never crashing, in the infinite emptiness of cold space.

Then, like a dauntless archer, she relentlessly struck him to the heart. And the impact resounded unbounded in his realm of existence…

Never ending…

The sound of one word…

“… Anymore.”

When the love of many grows cold
The end is near.
Then true love surpasses gold,
When we have befriended fear.


Love is no longer; yes, love is not.
Though it still exists
It is but a revered thought,
Only a mist amiss…a wish.


How dear the bliss we crave
When love is lost and pain embraces;
How dare we leave the distant cave
When life is harsh and filled with faces.


How sparingly the kiss we save
For a dream that seems to run infinite races.


Love once breathed but now the breath is silenced;
Stilled, to be unheard and felt nevermore,
Stifled by lust, pride and passionate violence,
Still, we crawl the Earth in search of paramour.


The wailing cries of lonely hearts echo through the night,
To be consoled only by a breeze of wind,
And enraptured by flight,
Returning empty to the heart, and chilling the soul within.


Robbing pillows of sleep,
And causing willows to weep.


We all walk with an awkward quiver;
We all talk hostile, bitter.
You may doubt but your soul will shiver,
When you learn that love has grown as cold as winter.


Forget all if you will but remember this, my dear,
When the love of many grows cold…the end is near.

I trekked a trail in a grimy wood,
Pursuing destiny, fate behind me stood

I hummed a tune of great remorse
And ruminated a late divorce

Then

I found a man in a half-burned astronaut suit
The lining was charred, he only had one boot

No ship near, no crew—a sole soul
Lying in the middle of a crater; a grain of rice in a salad bowl

He spoke to me through strained speech,
Telling secrets geniuses wish to teach
He said the stars of dreams were within his reach
But the bounds of worlds are ones men cannot breach

This astronaut
Had his suit tied with barely an Ashley knot
I’d just shipwrecked, floated ashore at half a knot
I asked him to tell of his ship, he said “I’d rather not”

But his tongue had no fetter
To quell his grand eloquence, for worse or for better

Nebulas in the wind,
Spires on the moon,
Galaxies in the horizon...

He muttered of such as though humming a tune

As I sighed a breath of great remorse
And contemplated the great divorce

He pulled a smile then grabbed my hand
And said, “The future is the greatest land.”

I tried,
I tried to stay by his side,
But my every insistence was denied

He commanded to be left to roam
The lands and worlds that he called “home”

But never has it left my mind;
My only encounter of this kind

To this day I don’t know if they were things he’d seen
Or fancy thrills he had dreamed
But I’ve never known a mind so keen
To make fables real as his words seemed

And since that day I’ve sought to find
The experiential treasures he had mined

See, never has it left my mind,
That day my near-death was left behind

Yes, never has it left my mind
Because he illumined the darkened eyes of mine

Or perhaps it has never left my mind
Because when I found him


He was blind.

Rule #1 of life:

No one cares.

Rule #2 of life:

There’s nothing you can do to make anyone care.

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This is Not a Poem.

Though I contemplate
The last line on this spring day,
Four words aren't enough.

I must be a bad one;

A band of one.

Banned.

Done.

Abandoned.

There is no mercy for the broken hearted

Only darts aimed at your shards

You’re a moving target

The loneliest are the most disregarded.

Don’t look for comfort,

Don’t even fathom a bond.

And don’t bother wonder

What you ever did so wrong.

This is the life you must accept.

This is the lot you must respect.

Your heart could break a million times,

The world will go on, filled with smiles.

Choose if you will, this truth to neglect

But you will still be the one they all reject.

You are the one they will reject.

This is the life you must accept.

For you are the loneliest of them all.


...The words spoken by the mirror on the wall.

I wish to fly free, as the birds do.

There’s a trade-off they say;

The birds know not love.



Neither do I.



Yet I am not free.

There once roamed a beggar
With a stark, unsettling gaze

Jutting from bloodshot eyes;
The veins resembled a maze.

His words poignant and potent,
Yet the vain were never amazed.

Though he was eager, his voice was meager.

His courage corroded from attrition and malnutrition.

For years he pleaded with the gaudy passersby

Each one despised him,
And fled before he could even ask them why.

With desperate agony
He tugged on their garments,

Their constant reply:
“Unhand me you varmint!”

Others wouldn’t even lend a word,
Only the breeze from their stride.

Trying to be seen was no different
Than trying to hide.

He stumbled through the crowds day after day.

Wasting away.

Constantly reaching for an embrace,
But he seemed to have the physical hand

Of an invisible man.

Day after day he wasted

Entreating for sustenance.
His corporeal substance emaciated.

A ***.

Glum.

****.

Shunned by a society gone numb.

Even though he never asked for a cent,
Or morsel, or crumb.

No, the only nourishment he ever sought

Was a ration of affinity.

A genuine bond
For a fraction of infinity.

Even a heartfelt conversation
Would fill his gaunt flesh.

Instead he was given a gauntlet to endure,
And die a myth like the legend of Loch Ness.

For years he shed tear after tear,
Till he no longer could.

But his heart still broke;
Torn, collapsing from tear after tear

Till he no longer stood.

Simmering in resignation,
He withered into a slumped lump,

A begrimed bump.

Bowing to the crowds passing in a blur.

He was an infectious disease without a cure.

He fused into the graffiti on the wall.

Till one day he disappeared, knowing it made no difference at all.

Still taunted and haunted by memories of sight and sound,

Now he wanes and decays in a cave...


Where I write this now.

Do you believe in Cupid’s quiver?

If so, prepare you heart to shiver

From the bitter bite of constant winter

Within this world of go-getter and lone giver.


There is no “one”...


Only no one.


I hate to crush your embellished dreams

But reality is not painted with such beautiful streams.

The story of life comprises eschewed reams.

All you feel is not what it seems...


The shimmer of rings,

The angel chorus sings,

Love songs on wings...

Life is not made of such beautiful things.


No ma’am,

There is no magic man.

There is no Dapper Dan.


Beware the perfect man,

Beware the perfect dame,

Who can decimate a heart

With a softly-spoken claim.


You may find a beauty

You might find a beast

But you can’t create love

With a bountiful feast.


Neither a bed of caressing

Nor a bouquet of charm

Could protect your spirit

From devastating harm.

I’m sorry to shatter your glass castle from where you search

And wait for love from a pinnacled perch...


But no sir,

There is no magic woman.

There is no Wonder Woman.


Beware the golden lady,

Beware the golden man,

Who can siphon a soul

By holding a hand.

I want to die.
No longer will I say
Life is beautiful.

Reality is harsh.
It doesn’t matter that
I try and try,
Relentlessly.

The sun shines bright

Then

The sun goes dim,

And everything changes.

One last hope;

A hope found

Becomes

A hope lost

That’s all it takes.

One thing,
In my life,
Made the difference,

A change of perspective

...

“This is the wrong choice”

He said—

Second thoughts crept into his head,

As he remembered a quote of hope.

Which he discarded swiftly

While he wrote the note,

He made up his mind

Then

His pen danced ghastlily...



...write this on his grave—

“Here lies a casualty of the digital age”

I’ve finally compiled 50 of my poems into my first published book! “The Passionate Pen and The Ink of Shadows.”

It’s now available on Amazon! I truly bore my soul unabashedly on the pages. If you like heartfelt poetry please check it out, if you don’t like it you can always return it. Link is in the notes below.