.. likes tearing people down
with loose talk and harsh words -
Empathy tossed aside
by the misuse of nouns and verbs.
.. a twisted view of society
just bound to be seen and heard -
Everyone, sit tight
till every harsh word is slurred.
The Queen of the Night Life;
her brokenness - a crown.
Out-spokenness - a sword
that she just loves to swing around.
As for me, I'm just a jester;
my struggle - a comedic scene,
but she’s justified by anger
only entitled to the royal queen

I don't have to know all
the places you've been
Or some love that fizzled
out way back when..
Just hold my hand
in the moonlight glow,
pull me close,
and kiss me slow..

Outside my window,
I hear a lonely dog wail
his tired nightly woes
—
His echoed alarms
interrupt an otherwise
quiet summer night

He cradled pieces
of poetry that
no longer
made much sense

He'd add a word,
here and there
or change some
misused tense

But from metaphors
forgotten to a flow
that slowed to still

the penman died
a lonely death
from all that
moved his quill

Beautiful words
from a dying man -
had he lived and
loved at all

but who will know or
care enough to brace
the penman's fall?

Day after day, I rivel.
Who knows for how long?
Reduced to mere survival
screaming it’s selfish undertone.
Aspiration is long forgotten
If I live, to what avail?
Despair darkens my demeanor
Time and time again, I fail.
Compassion is now contended;
Making less sense than it did before
And those who are offended
break the hinges off my door.
Disappointment - my adornment
as if I’m capable of more..
If only they knew the torment
that is relentless at my core.  
Wisdom only mocks me.
She dances around my doom
singing, “Here lies a foolish boy
who followed freedom to his tomb.”
Now I’m cast to raging seas;
A boat beaten by an angry wave;
unanswered cries like pleas
from crows that cry above my grave.

Tell me, Lord.. can these dry bones live?

Ah, Lord, You know.
But I am left to wonder why
every attempt to be the hero
turns to ashes when I die.
All this foolishness will follow
as I lay down and return to dust
and time is sure to swallow
all these fallacies I trust.

I danced in a ten
percent chance of rain;
not just because it
beat the odds,
but because
it never even
considered them.
It reminded me that
systems and
statistics are
man-made and fallible -
boasting with a
sure tone,
yet still confined
to near fraudulence..

You can tell me
it’s unlikely to rain,  
but it won't
stop it from pouring.
You can tell me
there's no God,
but it won't stop
Him from healing
these festered wounds.
And you can tell me
I'll never walk,
but it won't keep
me from dancing..

Who would know the struggle?
The apocalyptic rubble..
So sick I'm seeing double
and I haven't had a drink.

Jarred by nightly terror
Scarred by trial and error
Acting on impulse because
I'm too afraid to think.