I spend a lot of time trying to understand perspective different than mine whether they are religious or political. Being open an unashamed of being wrong, so I can grow.

I write a red heart of love. Feel glass viens shattering. Then take those blood shards and give them to the world.

It is the truth that breaks a poets heart. To know such violence lies in the eyes of the so called protector. Everyday I find myself more heartbroken even though I see the violence coming. Cause for every stride we made for justice their is another ******* hiding behind authority trying to take it away.

Tonight, I gaze
through eyes
glazed
with a
dark red haze.
It is this poetry
of pain
that I play with.
Part genius,
part ******,
but I still
work with
all of it.
It is tears,
tragedies
forgotten
and remembered
tinged with
the insights of
love and
the losses to come.

Tonight,
I am tired
but I will not sleep
because dreams
keep waking me
with what if
and never was tears,
even bringing in
cameos appearances
of family and friends
who have long since
departed this realm.

Tonight,
my eyes ache
for the sweet respite
of a well earned
rest,
but it is those
unconscious journeys
that frighten me.
So, I use
work as an excuse
while I abuse
caffeine,
just to avoid
the truth.

All should tremble at the audacity of those who overcome the social engineering of this society. Whatever greatness is achieved by humanity is not fostered by the mad masses following archaic and greed driven systems, it is accomplished by the outliers. We skewer the curve and hold the potential to cure humanity of the illness of cruelty, self-destructive behavoir, and the bad kind of arrogance. Love, science, and art is the key.

He will suckle
and spit
drinking blood
from your ****.

He will spread your legs
and leave
an unprotected present
deposited
past your ****
once he climaxes.

He will claim your womanhood
and demand that you submit
to his weakness,
calling his faults
dominance and confidence.

He will prey upon
ancient insecurities,
that subconscious programming
because you do not know
your own binary coding.

He will trick you into
drinking your resistance away,
plant his pin *****
in your fertile crescent,
and if you try to erase
that lifelong mistake
he will claim
that you are a sinner.

Subdued you will
sublimate your will
and fulfill
fifties sitcoms
housewife fantasies
for a family,
sacrificing all your dream
for the man who schemes
to enslave you.

A Pilgrim Out of Time

A frail old man bent with the weight of his pack -
He seemed to be carrying a long-dead world
From around 1967 or so
Or maybe he was still looking for truth

Slowly, slowly along the diagonal
Beneath the traffic lights where eight lanes cross
But his strange trail led through another world
And of our reverence for him we paused for him

His journey was his own, his own, alone
That frail old man bent with the weight of his past

The President Tweeted his Outrage

The tweeter of the free world tweets:
Speak loudly and carry a big tweet
54-40 or tweet
We have nothing to tweet but tweet itself

The twitteral of democracy
Ask not what your tweetry can do for you
We must dare to be tweet
The future doesn’t belong to the fainthearted; it belongs to the
        tweet

Government of the tweet, by the tweet, for the tweet
I know in my heart that man is tweet

                                  But now the tweet stops here

An Empty, Rusting Boxcar

This day will be just like so many others
An empty rusting boxcar creaking and grinding
Along behind other rusting boxcars
And followed by yet more rusting boxcars

Along a railway line from nowhere to nowhere
Across far plains, dry, featureless, and void
Dreams ride the rails like hoboes from the past
But they never seem to arrive anywhere

An empty rusting boxcar creaking and grinding
This night will be just like so many others

But in fact I'm down
Should be smiling not wearing a frown
My book got published yesterday
And that should make me happy
Instead why does my brothers opinion matter so much
I guess it's cos I need his trust