Don't call Trump a chimpanzee.
Chimpanzees can't talk.
Don't call him a pile of ****.
A pile of **** can't walk.
Don’t call Trump an Orange
That would be indiscreet.
You see, different from an orange
Trump is in no way sweet.

Don’t call Trump a swindler
Take his fat *** to court
Because when he needs proof
He will always come up short.
Don’t accuse him of bribery
Unless you have the proof.
He’ll just change his residence
To another unlisted roof.

Don’t call him a squanderer.
He’s not if it’s his money.
Trump likes stealing from other people
He finds that hilariously funny.
Don’t accuse him of gross lechery
He feels that is his right.
Don’t appeal to Trump’s conscious.
He doesn’t have one quite.

Don’t expect Trump to speak the truth.
He doesn’t know what that is.
When they were passing out ethics
He was off taking a wizz.
Don’t whine to us about that ****
And how he disappoints.
He’ll claim you heard him wrong
And that is his only point.

Don’t hope everything will work out
In any way in your favor.
Doing what’s right for regular folk
Is not Donald Trump’s flavor.
Don’t look for anyone in authority
To rescue you from the dump.
And, of course, most of all
Don’t call Trump.

the dull feel of pain
but not really pinching
more achy than sharp
which is better in most cases
this hurts more than it did
the first time around
but it also doesn’t hurt one bit
a mystery left unsolved
and goodbye isn’t a word
it’s more of a feeling
and through the days i felt
that you might be leaving
so adieu and farewell
it was perhaps a good time
but losing is a pain
and i lost every game
i still miss how you talk
but i don’t miss you at all
that’s important
remember
it doesn’t affect me at all
but it’s sad to look back
rome wasn’t built in a day
the greatest empires all fall
they all believe they’re eternal
but the difference is that
it really felt like we were.

there’s a ton of people
in this crowd
some people here acting
way too loud
and some people shoving
me around
no one’s really on my side.
if you want love,
then get in line
might as well have a
“feeling sad” sign
no one’s paying attention
anyways.
it’s kind of fine
kind of down
rather not talk
rather not laugh
kind of pitiful
kind of tough
rather not cry
just try to survive
and take back the tears
you already gave away
if you scream for help
no one comes running
maybe one glance
but you’re not worth caring for
it’s okay, you’ll be fine
maybe?
you don’t need salt
you don’t need red eyes
crying’s just a state of mind.

never to deep
never enough to die
but enough to feel the pain;
enough to scream inside

A painful tear leaks from my eye,
It screams a terrible sound,
A sound so loud but unheard from all around,
It flows down my cheek and seeps into the ground,
“Help him”, it cries “he wants to die”

When I was younger, I used to think I was going to be a Star.
Under a spotlight where everyone knew my name...
I was five.

Now, I want shadows and to be as far away as possible.
Hidden and far from consequence,
And even further from myself.
Where my name is not a name,
But just another word without any true meaning.

When I was younger, I used to think I was going to be a Star.
Now, I want to disappear.

I should have jumped overboard when I had the chance.

When I was five,
my mother told me I was loved.
Years later, she asked me to leave because
I was the reminder of the gruesome past that haunted her.

When I was ten,
my father told me he believed in me.
Years later, he refused to accompany me because
I was an embarrassment to him in front of the society.

When I was fifteen,
my friends told me I was funny.
Years later, they all laughed at me because
I was the gullible teenager who fell for their flawless façade.

When I was twenty,
this guy said I was beautiful.
Years later, he trashed me, tormented me because
I was ignorant enough to overlook my inevitable flaws.

So, sorry for not believing in you,
for questioning your intentions, inclusively, in-depth
when you told me you loved me because
I didn’t want to wind up years later,
learning it the hard way that people often don’t mean what they say.

“Are you okay?”,
my wife asks
when I cough.

“No. I’m fine.
Yes. I’m not”,
I respond,

stumping her
in the poetic irony
of words that

encompass the
yes and no
and the in between.

She flips the finger
at me and I return
the bird to the nest.

We go back to our life
and our tablets,
the drip, drip of my chemo
and I wonder about okay.

“No.  You’re fine.
Yes. You’re not.”,
the bag stares in response.