Sure,
    you can
go ahead
         and
      love me

         Only;

Loving you
      back,
   is not something
          that I can
        promise
thee

    What I am is;

I am an
    eastern coast
tree

   I think that
you know what,
    that
         makes me

        To you
    my time given
was
         for  free
  much like
    a wind's breeze

But realize;

    I am
nothing more
       than an
east coast
            winter's
     dead tree

I will only
    ever,
        love you
  partly

new year,
  same prison cell.
new decade,
  same hell.

new year,
  same as yesterday.
   new decade,
same fate.

new year,
  life's meaning
lost its virginity.
new decade,
  still the same
old destiny.

I'm a simple man.

I don't need all of the ******* you understand.

Don't ever pretend, don't ever lie to me.

I don't need all of the makeup, if you're beautiful, trust me I'll see.

Just sit next to me quietly and let's see where this can go.

Sit next to me on the shore and let us watch the river flow.

Let us listen as the waves crash up against our barefoot toes.

Sit next to me and watch some stars shoot across the sky.

Sit next to me and find out that I am just....

I am just a simple guy.


'Yours and everyone's concrete poet'
👷🏻‍♂️

Autumn
   shows us
     just how
stunningly
        beautiful
death
.   ..   can
        .. .. .be

   and

             how

beautiful

  .. . it is
               to

      ... .let

t
h
i
n
g
s

   ... . ..go.

    each

f
  a
     l
       l
         e
            n

    leaf..
        a rustic

memory

           so giving
   and.. .. .

     so artistically

lived...

     leafs are brave
and

        unselfish.

    can a leaf,

    yes
      a leaf...

be a hero?

    their reddish

****** hue

     in their end

        demands

respect.

      their life

          is all,

all

     about

        giving.

i salute

     the
heroic
         leafs

     and for

       giving me

o
n
e

    of my

   reasons

        for living.

I could write,
listen and read poetry,
all day and evening long.
Breaking down its core,
the meaning inside the poem,
by its author
is now,
one of my favorite things to do...
one of the things I look most forward to....
in
this life...
that is filled with mystery
and unknowns.
Is it because I enjoy distancing myself
from this world in which we live?
That's possible....----
indeed it could be,
quite possible.
Or is just because I have this insatiable affinity
for works of art whether it be in written form,
painted form,
nature form or ****** form?
I suggest ---
to myself of course,
that it may be ....
a little bit -------------
of both.
Every day I need to FEEL a poem.
Live in that poem,
whether written by me....
or another author.
Entertaining my own mind.
My mind that is forever a playground.
It's nice to get away.

Life   ~~~~~^~  
                  °
                 °
                  °
           o w °
          r    n
           d  s

               i
                n
                s
               i
                 d
                 e

     circumstances

into
ebon
forests
alone
i trek.

limbs of
stripped
trees reach
for the
communion
wafer
hued moon.

unsettling
echoes
of predators
find way
to my ears.

unfamiliar
eyes by
the hundreds
seemingly
fixed
upon me.

yet,
i continue
forward,
never do i
retreat.

fate is
not my
fear.

and fear
is not
my fate.

building a
granite
foundation
of character
represses
any fear.

i stand
firmly
ready
for the
attack
amongst
the shadows.

darkness
will regret
taking a
second swing
at David.

i already
fell
Goliath
once.

Waking up on the weekend to the fragrant smell of fresh cut grass

The humming engine of the neighbors lawn mower over a few laughs

Coffee's aroma wafting from the kitchen into your bedroom

Ah yes, this is indeed what they call a lover's swoon

As the sun's rays come to play and splash through your open blinds

Paradise isn't far if you never leave it to far behind

Off to a hot shower as the summer rain's softly echo

I can smell the aromatic rain through my open bathroom window

It's a calm, it's never a storm to my senses

It's weekend pleasures of fantasy and white picket fences

Arise from your bed, wipe the sleep from your eyes

Say hello to this morning and forget the goodbyes

You are a meteor shower on a canvas made of ebon sky.

You shed ice and dust with a glow that is easy to identify.

You shower me with beauty and steal away my breath.

You my love make the universe envy,
you are different than all of the rest.

A mouthwatering masterpiece of expression and galactic hue.

Tonight darling
tonight.....

i've never seen anything more beautiful than you.

'Yours and everyone's concrete poet'
👷🏻‍♂️👷🏿‍♂️

my wounds
  are many.
some will
   never heal,
some too deep.
  some wounds
that i just
  will never
understand
or feel,
   some that
my soul is
  forced to
keep.
  actions of
guilty others
  are my
deepest wounds
  because they
weren't
  self inflicted.
my loathing
  for those
'guilty others'
  inside me is
one helluva
  conflict.
never judge
  one's outside
unless you have
  lived on
their inside!
   inside
is where....
   most people
die.

have you
ever stepped
upon
broken
glass?

that distinct
sound of
crunching,
of that
complete
shattering.

have you
ever met
a person
clinically
depressed?

have you
ever met
a person
who can't
control their
emotions?

their
emotions
change as
swiftly as
the weather-
bi polar?

if you
have met
that person,
that person
is that
broken glass
you have
stepped
upon.

that person
that
continues
shattering
with every
step upon
them-
friend or
foe.

crunch...
crunch..
crunch.

we live
away or,
stay away
in the
shadows
because
that is
where we
prefer to
hide when
we cry.

if you
look upon
that floor
of
broken glass,
you will
see puddles
of emotion
mixed
within.

dehydrated
broken
beings
with literal
broken
hearts
who have
been
tortured
in a
lifelong
echo
chamber.

crunch...
crunch..
crunch.

please
be mindful
not to
step upon
the
broken glass.

broken
glass
can not
listen,
but it can
be
heard.

'Yours and everyone's concrete poet'
👷🏻‍♂️

In the life
of a bud -
and flower
in the garden.
There is no talk of riot
against Autumn.

Only a goodnight kiss
that lasts until Spring.
Secret gardens
outlive winter.

Autumn's secret garden is a beauty unrivaled.

Kiss me Autumn and let's make secret love amongst the bronze and cinnamon colored leaves.

Kiss me... and

     F
        a
           l
             l

for me.

Waiting
       to
           die

feels
           a lot

      like

           death.

   I drive

       yesterday

with my wife
      to a distant
location a few
        hours away

       and,
all it was

    was,

        anxiety

    for me.

        ******* drivers ,
       one after
    the other.

      My wife and I

    get to the point

       where we
realize that

    I simply

     dislike people-
  
      most people,
because of their
  selfishness and
the
ME ME ME
I I I I I I I,
      I come first
  way of these people.

    I have
       no fun
in life
     any more
       with these
people.

   I literally hate
     crowds because
I  dislike
     and
distrust
      people.

   I breathe in
anxiety
      and I exhale
anxiety.

     This life *****!!

   These people turn
me into,
      someone that
I don't like.

      And I am a man.
I never blame
     anyone for my
       troubles
          but;

a mere 5 minutes
  out in that world
    with those
ME ME ME ME
I I I I I folks?

   They turn my
blue skies BLACK!

  Some folks live life.
     I live this life
waiting to die just to get away
       from all of
the selfishness
          and
           anxiety.

   The rounds
that I keep
    going back
into the ring for?

   Those aren't
       for me
any longer.

    I have lived
what life that
   I wanted to.

  But, for as
long as He
    deems it
     necessary
for me to
   step into
that ring....

   I will honor
His wishes.

Wanting is an emotion.

    What it is,

is,

       only one step preceding devotion.

Muscles
   in our body
must rip
      must tear,
      must bleed
and suffer
        to become stronger.

And I think .......
  
       life,
        makes it the same
for our
hearts.

     Broken hearts
        do
mend.

Your teddy of white soft **** silk and lace,
covering your sweaty body in all the right places.
A soft kiss and a nibble on the nape of your neck,
south down your body slowly, a methodical pace.
Your inner thighs as hot as a melting ice cream cone,
I lick and I lick , fever pitched breathing , my shoulders you brace,
I make my way by the silk and the lace,
like candy from heaven, sweetness is all that I taste.
Legs draped over each one of my shoulders,
the summit is near , oh that look on your face.
The ceiling fan on high over a bed of sweat filled sheets,
cooling their bodies as if in a race.
Your teddy of white soft **** silk and lace,
gone without a trace.

'Yours and everyone's
'concrete poet'
👷🏻‍♂️👷🏿‍♂️

we separate ourselves,
   for sanity.

we separate ourselves,
   for serenity.

we separate ourselves,
   for lucidity.

we separate ourselves,
   for stability.

we separate ourselves,
   for breath.

we separate ourselves,
  to push away death.

'Yours and everyone's concrete poet'
👷🏻‍♂️

i

         often

  wonder

how

  emptiness

             is

        always

so

      h      y
        eav

humans
always want
something
much more
when "it"
isn't theirs.

'Yours and everyone's concrete poet'
👷🏿‍♂️👷🏻‍♂️

That empty place at the table.
Or, perhaps the place not so void of another worldly presence.
I caught a glimpse of you....yes you.
A quick sighting of you in brightly monochromatic colored attire.
With a light so magnificent, so radiant.
Almost in trance by its wavelength and frequency.
The chair directly seated in this empty place.
It appears almost depressed with a form of what once was.
Beneath the chair , your slippers Sabre has brought with a wagging tail.
On the holiday place mat your black framed reading glasses.
The ones that made you look ever so wiser to me.
Even more than I thought could even be possible.
Also a number 2 pencil and a book of fabulous crosswords collections.
Challenging word games we both took seriously, yet enjoyed.
A navy coffee mug inscribed with your name.
Not a stain to be found on the USS Fort Mandan.
I sip from this mug , never to gulp.
I want my memories of you in stages....
not a gulping unsavoriness.
But rather slowly , cherishingly...  methodically.
I set your coffee mug gingerly down after rinsing it with care.
I will sip from this mug again another day soon.

like a
morning sunrise
through the
open blinds,  
i gently kiss
your silken thighs.

forcefully yet
thoughtfully,
i awaken
your enchanting
emerald eyes.

like a
  tree,

all that
   i want
to do
     is....

"leave"
and,

    have my
branches....

     stretch to
    
             reach
  the

heavens.

our parts
are
mostly
universal
sure...

our
outsides
are :

"you've seen
one,
you've seen
them all."

which IS
beyond truth.

remember
though,

that's not
what makes
you....
you.

you are
so much
more
than that,
so much more !

unique to you?

it's your soul
that
makes you....
you.

it makes
you
attractive,
it makes
you unattractive.

keep your
soul
beautiful.

feed it love,
feed it caring,
feed it sharing,
feed it
properly and...
people will
watch you
grow,
watch you
glow.

your soul
is not
universal.

your soul
is the
truest you.

My parchment
  is the sponge
for all of my thoughts,
good or bad.

If I were to wring it out?

My thoughts would flood
this universe.

Every day I drown inside
every page of my
journal.

No need to save me from me.

last Christmas
   we came
together,
     for an
unexpected start.

last Christmas
   is when,
i decided....
   i gave you
     my heart.

last Christmas
    the cold
snow
   was an excuse
to unite
   our bodies
for heat.

last Christmas
   was the last
time i was able,
     to hear your
heart beat.

last Christmas
   right or wrong
is a song,
   that reminds me
of you.

last Christmas
   i think....
reminds you
     of me too.

please....

never give
  my heart
    away....

please stay.

when
  we know that,
something is
   killing us.

what is
  our fascination
to keep
  touching it?

still there?

life
will
*****
your
hands,

it will
*****
your
mind,

it will
*****
your
spirit,

but-
don't
allow
this
life....

these
people..


to
*****
your
soul.

Try
    
           and keep

     your
          feet

                 from
   moving

             down

         any

                 dead
end

    street,

           mistakes

               on those

   dead ends

       are
           not

               ones to

         repeat

i.. .
...

   i never
promised you
      the moon.

i only promised
   to howl
at it
        with you.

every year
  since his
father's
    passing,
he seemingly
   has only
gotten worse
    not better.

withdrawing,
     retreating
  himself deeper
inward and
  furthering
himself away
    from every
normal
  societal
celebration,
    everything
and everyone.

intentionally  
  destroying
himself privately
    at least,
  away from
the eyes
    of others.

he desperately reaches
  for hope
within Jesus
   every day
but not even
  Jesus can
give him hope
  on his
"i don't want
   to be here"
days.

he sees things
  much too
clearly about
    life that
his troubled
  mind refuses
to be persuaded
  with mere
fractions of
   happiness.

his eyes
  absolutely know
what they see
  and his heart
absolutely knows
what it feels.

which,
   leaves his
soul wrought
   with pain
      and wound
after wound...
  
deeper and
  deeper these
wounds plunge...

  the bleeding
is becoming
    uncontrollable
  inside...

he's running
  out of
tourniquets.

your
       naked

unique
                body     should
            only belong
    
               to someone ...

            that
               falls in love
                   with your
         naked
    
            unique

soul.

'Yours and  everyone's concrete-poet'
👷🏿‍♂️👷🏻‍♂️

backed up
sewers
and roses
are now
how i
differentiate
........

people?

let's just
put it
this way.

the smell
of raw sewage
has
become
overwhelming
in this
world.

most people
that
you will
encounter
are full
of ****.

keep a
respirator
close by.

i fondly
remember
the once
abundant
bouquet
of roses
in this
******
world.

'Yours and everyone's concrete poet'
👷🏿‍♂️👷🏻‍♂️

ravens
   follow
me...

  behind
the ravens,

    the
vultures
         follow.

behind
   the vultures,

             the
           coroner
with a

black
   body bag.

I
  am
not
          living,

           I
   am
just
      
            waiting

         to die.


One day,

     I

"will be the poem".

     and on that day,

      I won't be here any longer
       and I will once again live.
    
      right now, I am not living.

I'm just
      waiting to die.

Eyes peel open    -        
my nostrils tingle -
as the smells of soil and sweat
                          permeate the air.

The heat and humidity is unbearable    -
breathing shallow -
            movement restricted.

I only wish to wipe the sleep
from my eyes -
who would prevent me      -      
              such a simple request?

Anxiety billows for                
a brief moment      -
surrendering complacently -
as the frequency of
my rising chest
                                    slows.

I sense my sightless eyes
dimming                                -
resting shut -

I am so tired...
                    over the fence they go -
one  -
           two.        -
three...
                  their fleece as white as snow.