Cadaverous crotchety gouged out eyes.
Scalped trite and malnourished minds.
Where am I? What has this land become?
My vessel is gutted galled and splayed out upon the enflamed remains of our democracy.
I try to embody the equanimity peaceful   qualities of the lulling Gandhi characters before me...
But ****, I am angry, jolted and saturated in shock in fear.
Being an advocate for the people so dismissively marginalized, is what brings substance to my life.
I look into the eyes of my mirthful clients and future students, my heart winces.
How did I allow this to happen to you?  
A man who so boastfully incinerates and debased the citizens of our land with his farcical vitriol, is no man at all but merely an unsightly shrew, cozily cosseted in his world of soot and pooh.
The bosky gorgeous land we inhabit sobs in noxious fright.
To be despoiled and berated as some "natural right" splintered and tainted to allow the green cash river flow into the dubious maw of the man with no dignity to show.
A man who preens such a degenerated mindset is only aptest to a society in shambles.
Our global haimish home yearns for the equilibrium from which it was born.
In such a seeded tumultuous time my heart is seeped in reverberating sorrow.
Let your love and purity coat your vessel, do not let this barbaric man permeate your soul.
Hold steadfast to the testament of our land
True revolution is budded from a web of genuine connection, not devise brandished weapons.
Don't shroud yourself in misery, break free and be prepared to encite love with your authenticity.

I leave thy praises unexpress'd
  In verse that brings myself relief,
  And by the measure of my grief
I leave thy greatness to be guess'd;

What practice howsoe'er expert
  In fitting aptest words to things,
  Or voice the richest-toned that sings,
Hath power to give thee as thou wert?

I care not in these fading days
  To raise a cry that lasts not long,
  And round thee with the breeze of song
To stir a little dust of praise.

Thy leaf has perish'd in the green,
  And, while we breathe beneath the sun,
  The world which credits what is done
Is cold to all that might have been.

So here shall silence guard thy fame;
  But somewhere, out of human view,
  Whate'er thy hands are set to do
Is wrought with tumult of acclaim.

i were left to impress upon myself the medium of hips
where in was yours, the aptest sliver of
feminine hotting spark
                                                 and after
in rigid slumbers mortar
she was more astonishing
than gods first light
he said
once
(and it was
) so?

some answers teach us that we have to ask
in simple words but make the complex set
of terminologies our broadest net
the tool that's aptest for this ample task
of abyssal exploring those who bask
on  the warm hills they who will never get
how hard the job is whose feet are not wet
they'll not discern the world behind the mask
but on some morning when the mists depart
those who go furthest out may well discern
in the sharp moment of deepest desire
the one thing missing to complete each heart
at the right moment when the waters burn
with the clear light of universal fire

Why I am like this?
The taddest stiver from what I deem aptest is excavated.
My skin is pock marked and discolored like a poorly laundered sheet.
When I run my fingers across my flesh ridden vessel my fingers read the incrusted  imperfection.
Divot: you were never worthy
Scar: who could ever find you appealing?
Blemish: your existence is repugnant
I ravenously pick at my skin, hoping I'll find some scintillating suit of beauty lying just beneath my robe of acquiescent reality.
Tear: I fear intimacy because I let my imperfections blind me.
Heart: palpitating panic, I've grown accustom to the small nibbling self loathing.
I harrow my skin not only as a result of my OCD, but as a way to keep me corralled from all the potential I'm afraid to see.  
I feel much more safe sundered away from all the beautiful things I once aspired to be.
Scarring, discoloration, dead skin.
I don't have to fret rejection when I've already denied myself the right to be accepted.