can I write a poem
or only rhyme
I’m not sure where I’m goin’
it’s one word at a time
like data through a modem
still, I hope for the sublime
a psychospiritual novum
to delight a reader's mind,
show how jaded skepticism is **-hum,
and like ***, ecstatically manifest the divine
.
.
A song for this:
The Deepest Sighs, the Frankest Shadows by Gang of Youths
Palo Alto by Jack River

Often I've envisioned
The demise of man
And placed myself as patient 0
The vector of the plague

Pestilence on my finger tips and soars on my cheek, I stumble around and infect and decay and inoculate hundreds of people a day
I watch as the disease spreads and the ones you love die. And know it was my fault... at least in some Way.

And as we all slowly die, and join the wandering gangs, it's the ending we deserve for all our sins and disdain.

Everything happens the way that it should

[sometimes you just have to wait a bit to see,
but even bad can be good
if you give it room to breathe.
There's nowhere to look but directly at it,
and to face what's come be.]

It could not have happened any other way, because it happened the way that it did.

{You are who you are - and you did what you did - and you're the only place you can be; this the only life you live. There is no other you to compare yourself too. They are a figment. They do not exist.}

So you are where you are until you change something, kid. It is what it is. You get what you get, and you get what you give. 

(You want it different? Do it differently; otherwise, take it all for what it is: and either change what you need to change, or quit your ******* and settle in. There's Nothing to do about what you did. The choices made are set in stone, forgive yourself and start to dig.)

The thing is, either I'm reallly wrong, or I'm REALLY right.
And I think I'm really right.
Yeah but you dont ever REALLY believe you're really wrong, so you really always think you're really right.
But I am always right. Every time!
I mean not... you are often right.
Right?!?
I mean... yeah...
You're right.

His colloquy, vintage, rich and bold
Unveiling nuances, young and old
Subtleties dance, like fireflies at night
Whispered innuendos, a gentle, sweet delight

His flavor, a lingering caress
Savoring bliss, in each
tender address
In this sensory waltz, entwined
A delicate balance of taste and design

Where words become wine,
and wine becomes art
Relentless aftertaste, a deliberate
imprint on the heart

Sunset kisses,
the ocean’s skin.
Orange light cradles,
in the waves' arms.
And the sky’s darkness,
finds a home,
in the ocean's heart.

The weather is important when writing a play,
Such is when Romeo and Juliet was shown,
It was a cold and raining day.

So the audience would forget about the heat,
Off in fair Verona had Shakespeare failed,
To keep mention of the begrudging summer.