You are the bees knees or like moths on the breeze,
Like a pretty hurricane caused by a butterfly's sneeze.
You are the dew on the tips of a daffodils hips,
Sweet small drips resting on caterpillar lips.
You are lush like moss and nearly twice as soft,
As mysterious as the gusts that keep samaras aloft.
You are all the best things that this spring will bring,
but if you think this sappy, then *******, you stink.

Superior  consciousness, meat suit

When will we stop pretending we're interesting,
when we're just like everyone else?
We spend so much time inside of our own minds,
trying hard just to be ourselves.

When we're not all that beautiful and we're not all that sharp,
We're not ******* special, we're barely a spark,
Yet we burn all our bridges to try and go our own way,
But the fact that we're nothing is what makes us the same.

What if all that was offered to you was spat from your tongue?
Would it make any difference when it's all said and done?
I believe it wouldn't matter if it all washed away,
Because when the flood water rises we all drown the same.

Well if nothing is sacred then nothing's disgraced,
And nothing is important in matters of faith,
It all just feeds the ego and is all to save face,
Either boxes or ashes we all end the same.

I wish we could stop pretending we're interesting,
when we are just like everyone else.

I want to lose my mind and have my sides split and crack with laughter. Grow my smile lines and go giggling to the here after. To be that batshit lunatic with contagious savage laughing fits. To thrive in hysterics, lose my marbles and half my wits.. I want to dress loud, double down and even learn to juggle. Be the clown that jokes around and gets you in and out of trouble. A jovial spirit creating extravagant jubilant debacles... Laugh my way to the grave and dance insane among the crumbling rubble.

I wonder if the butterfly
is jealous of the bumblebee's sting,
or is the bumblebee envious
of the butterflies wing..
Though should it use it's stinger,
it will soon surely die,
and those wings all so beautiful,
are near too fragile to fly.

Troubled is the heaviness still brewing from the feud,
As you chew upon the bitterness that our fathers have fed you,
Bent and burdened shoulders cannot accept embrace,
So I beg you, my beloved brothers, let me bear some weight.

My rhythm is off, but the beat is calling,
That tribal drumming, the earthen pulse.
A return to the roots of natural forces,
A long lost knowledge from ancient skulls.

The fire is dim, but is stoked and burning,
All shadows retreat, as I turn to ash.
The smoke will be cleansing as is the flame,
It builds brighter still, as it burns the past.

My blood will flow with the tides of the sea,
Each crashing wave washing myself anew.
My cup runneth over and fills me back in,
A rush of emotions to get me in tune.

My breath of the wind, steady and calm,
Connects with nature and settles this storm.
As light as a feather, as serene as the sky,
My soul like a cloud, shifts and transforms.

With roots dug in deep, my crown opens up,
Embracing the guidance of heaven and earth.
With gratitude I surrender over again,
To the endless process that is my rebirth.

He rolls up smiling in his finely detailed luxury convertible with the executive package. He checks his watch frequently as he has many things to do, but he also likes to look at it. He likes to look at other people looking at it too. Nothing but the finest for him. From his italian leather belt to his perfectly creased tailor fit khaki slacks. He has his dress shirt tucked in and power jacket on to show that he's all business, but no tie.. Never a tie, because the lack of one keeps him hip and real and young. He's living the life, he thinks to himself, a forty-four year old bachelor, all the money in the world, and a full head of hair.
He didn't hold the door for the lady walking behind him as he entered the store and she was left scrambling to catch the handle. He suddenly seemed awfully alone in the world he created. So much so that he doesn't even notice the rest of us. Then he exchanged some demeaning words with the cashier for taking too long when counting change and I realized he wasn't happy either.  He glanced at me as he left and as our eyes met I wondered what my face said to him... If anything at all.

I wonder if a moth has ever tried to fly to the moon,
I wonder if she dreamt of it while asleep in her cocoon,
Ambitiously flapping and seduced by the light,
Of that yellow moon shining, enticingly bright.
I wonder if she tempted all the perils of the sky,
I wonder if she conquered all the limits of her mind,
Certainly, she made it.. At least one can dream,
To believe that the impossible is closer than it seems.

Like a path out of the forest hidden beneath the snow, there seems to be some grand idea just below the surface. Dreamlike inspiration quickly fading like footprints in the drift. Our survival depends on our ability to scratch pen to paper and hand to head to make something tangible from thought before it vanishes.
That impassible white, equally mesmerizing and infuriating in its indifference. The page cares not for our words, yet we demand it be filled. We stumble through words and stutter our thoughts, grabbing loose metaphors from the air like snowflakes, only to watch them melt away from our pen.
Yet as many times as we retire in exasperation is as many times that we'll start again. For the drive to create and the need to relate outweighs our torturous view of the craft. Soon enough winter will break and words will sprout forth from the fertile ground of our minds. Bountiful metaphors and analogies will ripen for the picking and the path that has been there all along will be realized. Only then will we know for certain that spring has sprung again.

Flames lick and flicker fueling the fire of a combustible iridescent soul until it explodes in formed phrases and stories told like fireworks. Wielding an unfathomable yearning for learning the true weight of words and how hot they burn for better or worse. Rehearsed and rehashed paragraphs, finely tuned non fiction, fabricated falsehoods, and forgotten lore are riddled and widdled down into one well written epic epitaph ment to inspire us to tightrope walk on live wires or fan the fires of our own burning funeral pyers for a chance that we may be understood through written word.

When daylight is subdued by the hues of the moon,
And changes our views to deep shades of blue,
Sleep soundly and deep... a sweet lullabye sleep,
And attempt to dream of what dreams keep,
May you see without sight while your eyes are drawn tight,
Until the dawns waking light sweeps away the night,
I hope that your soul returns rested and centered,
And may all of your dreams be remembered forever.

She is a genius truly, in so many ways.
The way I need though... Only you can relate.

As alien as I am to you...
I am just as so to myself.
Just as you are.
And are to me.
Dimensional relations.
Overlapping worlds.
The paper has folded and corners touch.
Still there is comfort...
A bond in the unfamiliar.
A brotherhood in strangeness.

The end of a doomed generation. The do as I say not as I do, tyrannical, beat you into submission generation. The what you do matters more than who you are or how you feel about yourself generation. You were the last, dear uncle.. The last of the bitter barbarians who shattered dreams and broke spirits. The last who believed that children knew nothing and could accomplish less. The last to teach your children bravery by beating the fear out of them.. The last to believe that love made you weak instead of stronger..
Your funeral was so obviously a celebration for us, the next generation. The ones who survived you.. The ones who learned from the previous generations mistakes. The newly emancipated generation will not be embarrassed of who they are or who they want to be. This generation will succeed and not be told to give up when they fail. They will earn their place instead of take it. They will follow what makes them happy and be encouraged to do so. Most importantly, they will NOT be ashamed to say, I love you.
Here's to you, to the dead and buried generation who taught us how not to live. Your timing could not be better, for the next generation under our charge is too young to know you. May they learn from our mistakes quicker than we learned from yours..
We love you and we forgive you. May you rest in peace.

How foolish of the hopeless
to pray to the self righteous,
When hopelessness is written 
on each of their eyelids,
If only we could scribe,
with unblinded irises,
And unveil the silence,
of our unfounded biases.