I was sitting on a train with my pad and a pen, trying to write a poem. I had no title, but I had written down the first line

...I was sitting on a train with my pad...

A man sat opposite me.
After a minute or so of scanning his paper and throwing cursory looks in my direction
he enquiried "What are you writing?"

"I'm trying to write a poem about a man trying to write a poem on a train
who gets asked by a stranger 'what are you writing'.

"Can I be in it?", asked the stranger opposite.

"You already are", I replied.

The train pulled out of the station.

Today, the sky is an ashen hue of grey.
Today, the sky is void of warmth.
Today, Christmas is a week away.
Today, the sky is weeping.

I stand in line at the checkout stand.
Two older women wait ahead of me.
My ears tune-in to their conversation.
They're talking about Connecticut.

"...they say he took his mother's life..."
"...went to the school and took the lives of 20 children..."
"...he went in and they said they heard popping sounds..."
"...they say it's the second to worst school shooting, ever..."
"...anyways, they say she was probably the first child to be shot..."

And there it was.
Good old American sentiment at it's finest.
Does it really matter who's innocent life was taken first?
Does it really matter?

So petty.
So insignificant.
Here we are, facing a tragedy... and then,
Here we are turning it into a competition.

Frustration hits me like a wave as I stand there in line.
My stomach twists because it's always the same.
My head swirls as I feel the earth spinning
It's always the same.

The sky still sobs as I leave the store.
The haze still haunts and the cold confirms.
I get in my car to drive away from the women.
I get in my car to drive away from the twisted sentiment.

Now I am standing alone in the rain.
The callous wind nips at my neck.
I stare at the rippling surface of the lake.
I watch the reflecting sky distort itself.

Somewhere out there people are suffering.
Around the world humans die every day.
But when it's here, the world morns with us,
And when it's out there, we pretend not to know.

--Christian J. Clark

Tears stream down my face
Life is for living
But that is not what I do
I am merely existing
Miserable and alone
Lacking love, happiness, hope
Sometimes it all seems so pointless
Why even bother getting up in the mornings?
When I know everyday is just the same
Sadness and misery and hatred
rationally I know the world can be beautiful
But I can not bring myself to believe
That my world can get any better
Than this harsh, desolate wasteland

Big whack stack
of monetary memories
catalogued in dream states
vibrating at different subconscious frequencies....

With the headphones in I listen
to the past and future collide
into a cosmic harmonious kaleidoscope
of the present moment--
piercing through my perception
of right/left conscious thought
moving so molten fast
wielding each side together seamlessly.

can i destroy myself in you

My darling,
Go back to sleep.
Leave the hurry and the rush of the world to me
And just sleep.

Let the waves of slumber
Fall into you in a warm rush
Of blankets and breath.

My girl, my woman,
Lie back down and stop worrying,
Calm those lungs and slow your heart,
I will give you all the time in the world
If you will just slow down.

My bags aren’t packed
And there is no seat on a train
With my name on it.

Your career will come
And you will make a splash.
If not we will live on a diet of bread and noodles
And scramble the rent together each month,
Feeding scraps to the dog.

And don’t you fear.
Don’t you ever fear
About the stumble in your step,
Or the snort in your laugh.
The freckles on your back
Or the troubles in your head.

Your imperfections are what makes you beautiful to me,
My dear,
In this world of change – please don’t.