mouths
spout
garbage out

Nasty
eyes
see the world
and everything in it
as dark

Nasty
hands
crop up as weeds
full of disease
do nasty deeds

Nasty
people
don’t like themselves
so they ruin it
for you
it’s all they can do

It’s persistent, the voice in my head
The voice that tells me I’m no good
I may have kept it at bay for awhile
But now that I’m tired and stressed
Now that I feel like I’ve lost control of my life
It’s back

I am not a good husband
Not a good father
Not a good coach
Not a good friend
Not a good employee
Not a good son
Not a good writer
Not a good person

These are the words it wants me to believe
These are the feelings it evokes
These are what will ruin my day
If I pretend they aren’t there

The power is in the secrecy
If only I would keep these words hidden
Don’t let anyone know
The secret is the oxygen that fuels the fires
Of self doubt
The voice wants me to suffer alone
“No one can know” it tells me
“They won’t understand” it bellows
But these are lies

All have days like this
All have weeks and months
Littered with doubt and stress and fear
The truth is that we are not alone
Not in any of it
Those lies lose their power
In the presence of that truth

Share your fears
Acknowledge that they exist
Identify them by name
And you will learn that your mind
Plays sick jokes

I am a good husband
I am a good father
I am a good coach
I am a good friend
I am a good employee
I am a good son
I am a good writer
I am a good person

Even when I don’t feel it
These are the truth

What's it take
These days

To write a poem

That makes the world go mad
That brings the crowds to their feet
That spreads like wildfire
Through a dry winter forest

Is it those excessively long words?
The ostentatiously loquacious
Platitudinous ramblings
Of an insecure mind aspiring
To authentic intellect?

Is it perhaps...
     the "creativity"
               of      varied      spacing
  or...    could it be..... the lack
                              of capitalization
               the loathsome little letters
               screaming out
                         hey, look at us!
         ... or maybe it's
               the punctuation marks,
     littered, haphazardly
          through the text
                    (whether used correctly)
               or, theyre not?!
     despite worrds mispeled
          and a grammar might is broken
   can these gimmicks increase interest
        though miswritten or misspoken?

Is the trick alliteration
Whose bite brightly bids us
To center on the snappy sounds?
Although all along
     unvoiced underneath
Ideas idle in the isles
   (or perhaps the aisles)
Of the mind
To meld and craft and bind
Our thorough thoughts
And worthy words
Into lines
Which
Heard by herds
Raise the
                  Praise for which we
                  Privately, desperately
                  Pray

Maybe it's a magical mix
Of splendid in-your-head rhythm
Marvelous meter that perfectly clicks
Flowing smoothly without schism

Well-spaced stanzas
Well-used time
Well-crafted phrases
Well-thought-out rhymes

Well, maybe not...
     those gems are often ignored
     cast-aside, unread, even abhorred

Why?

Because the modern world
doesn't need your rules
your restrictions
your regulations
your misguided boundaries
your oppression
your antiquated ideas
   of "the right way"
   to write
   to speak
   to act
   to live
   to (fill in the blank)

No, what the modern world needs
is
Negation!
Contradiction!
Resistance!
Revolt!

And poetry whose words
Say the same thing
Repeat the same meaning
Echo the same lyrics
Rephrase the same thoughts
But in an ever-so-slightly
Different
Varied
Altered
Adjusted
Changed up way

Line
After line
Of synonyms
          over
               and
                    over
                         and
                              over
                                   again

-----

What's it take
These days

To not give in
To narcissism's spiral?

But more importantly:
What's it take

To make my poem go viral?

I found a book of poems
in a beautiful heart wood chest
And written across its sturdy lid
Was the word "hope", like sunday best

Upon this book of poems
Lay a velvatine writting pen
And vials of ink from distilled life
For writing letters to her friend

When I went to read her words
 I discovered the lock on it
The key she gave that opened her room
Was never the key that would fit

So I put her poems back
I was nothing more than a guest
And with the blood that ran from my eyes
Next to "hope", I wrote the word "less".