Will I die in the battle?
I must remain strong in the saddle
Soldier’s thoughts having one mind
Will I still be alive?
The enemy could be a few feet away
As a Soldier, I cannot be a coward and go astray
I must stay alert and be focused
My Code of Honor
Concentration on the battle
Regardless of Bombs and Ammunition
Sunrise and Sundown a Soldier’s responsibility to stand
Salute at command
Yet a thought of Dead or Alive
It’s a Soldier’s commitment to strive
Tomorrow is fighting at the present
I am a Soldier and I must represent
Can’t turn back would be a resent

There had been times I would often cry
I felt one day I would be dead being a goodbye
But I was given the command to guard the front line
However, I was assured I was covered by the Lord
God instilled I wasn’t alone
Even during the time the Commander said to be at ease
I felt the comfort of God’s refreshing encouraging breeze
Stay the Course
God is the guiding light being the force

Battles will always have battles
But I can’t let anything make me rattle
Oh yes, stand and be firm while holding on to the saddle
Remain Strong
Help your fellow Conrad’s in getting along
I am on the battlefield where I belong

No matter what the circumstance
I have been given the chance
The enemy could one day attack on a prance
But it is the pride in being a soldier
One life but live it to the fullest in war
I am a Soldier
Bold and True
Commitment is my pursue
Enemies could be in my face
But as a Soldier
I have been trained to be Bold and Lean
I have been given the salute to proceed
I am the Soldier I stand
There is a battle in demand
Carry on Solder.

Dinosaur bones, discovered under an overturned rock. Dust-covered and forgotten photos in the attic. The rug pulled out from under us. Highway patrol of a distant creature. I woke up on the wrong side of a very terrible generation. Just when I thought all was good, it wasn’t. Giant ego ruined their reputation. Lost on the beaten path. My faith smells like ***** dishes. Heroes come and go; villains will always be. Dramatization of the fire. It’s up, up and away with a feeling of mutilated pasts. A young woman in a bad man’s dream. Keep a cool head while we enter the jungle. *****-trapped instincts. This plan was doomed from the start. Let’s go back while we still have two of our appendages. The dog stares at the door, waiting for a Drunk. We both drink, but we’re not arrogant ******. The love I have for a friend of true nature. What’s that in the shadow of the empire? A rebellion. Smoke out the rat. The back door is a fire lane. A simply-put puzzle. Razorblade Cake-Mix. The sound scared the children. Candy from a stranger, candy from a friend, both will likely **** you in the terms of very end. I’ll stand on the first fallen soldier. He doesn’t know me in the meantime. A happy face for all those once told to forget it. My dignity in a department store lost-and-found. Jump for joy, parade for unemployed.  A long line of henchmen waiting to be sidekicks. Watch where your education gets you when us dropouts change our pace. You’re better than no one, we’re better than no one, but we faced the facts about this a long time ago. Convincing isn’t working. A dark hole in the bottom of the bird-feeder. No more nourishment for your ill-advised brain.

My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -
In Corners - till a Day
The Owner passed - identified -
And carried Me away -

And now We roam in Sovreign Woods -
And now We hunt the Doe -
And every time I speak for Him
The Mountains straight reply -

And do I smile, such cordial light
Opon the Valley glow -
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let it’s pleasure through...
-Emily Dickinson*

And I do smile, the white bright Colgate chiclets
stretch under my lips. The crooked thing, the
clever turn of my mouth,
we all pass a point in life when this is a means to an end.
Stop. Do not collect 200.
Again. Again, I thought "Send me straight to hell"
because it's not fair for me to feel this way any more.
I want to shoulder the brunt of it and throw it up and down,
white linens to the wind.
A dramatization of who I have come to be,
fueled and fired by alcohol and lack of sleep.

A stuck Lipton in the vending machine,
"I want to start a social movement of direct experience"
Sure. We'll do that. Let me get back. . .
let me get back to this blue screen for a bit. I want a change.
I want to see some change! Let's throw our
phones away and start over. Depression falicitates our  
efforts, but I had my pleasure. I had my kicks though.

Could it be happening like this?
So fast, so new, so fresh
I'm practically weak in the knees
Especially when I'm in his arms.

The world is so much more now
Than it was before
Everything is so colorful
Rather than black and white.

I could -die- for him
I know that's crazy to hear
We haven't been together for long..
But that's how I feel.

I have this gut feeling
That we're really gonna go far
It's almost terrifying
But I welcome it.

I always imagined it being like this
This love thing
I never really had it
Thought I did, but I was wrong.

This is how it really is to be in love
Powerful, passionate, exhilarating
And rather than -pretending- that I feel those things
They really are there, exploding on the inside of my heart.

I tried to find this kind of love before
But you can never really go out looking for it
And when you finally stop searching everywhere
It falls right into your lap, like it had never been hidden.

I literally swoon
He makes me swoon
I didn't ever think swooning was real
Just an over dramatization of a small feeling you only see in movies.

His eyes on me make me melt
His kisses lead me into a spinning excitement
Where the world outside of that moment, outside our universe,
Ceases to exist all together.

The best part is knowing that fairy-tale love exists
As long as you find the right person
Wait! Don't rush! Don't settle!
It'll come to you. It will.

As I conclude
This poetic letter of my confession, straight from my heart
Let love evade you!
If you keep chasing it-- it will never come

Love.
I couldn't think of a better word.

Wind whips, whistling in the seat belt,
Crooning along to the emotional ululations
As I succumb to the emphatically teenager-like emotions,
Grand in their extremity,
Both realizing and fully embracing the cliché-ness
And dramatization of every quip, gesture, glance.
My mood soars irrationally with the voraciousness of my tires,
Devouring every granule of cement at velocities upwards
Of 30 miles per hour.
Jason Mraz and I make an excellent duet,
As I’m quite certain the disgruntled woman a lane over
At the stoplight thinks as well.
He sings of skies “getting rough”
And I allow my eyes to wander to our own ominous clouds,
Creeping from the east like panthers prowling in search of prey;
I appreciate their slate undertones and umber rumples,
The gold shining from behind and within, tinting their edges,
But I turn my attentions slowly, with a bittersweet notion,
To their fluffy brethren, friends of Magritte,
Iridescent and captivating as they weave among the rays.

the first word that i received from you
when my eyes cracked apart
"hatred"
between hatred and "no"
no was the beginning of the last things
there was a flurry of expressions that reminded
me of you
the real you
all things that we only whisper to each other
like a sting of cartoon hearts
"tell me youre alive"
"i hate your guts"
"secret telling sessions"
"lord father god"
but that wasnt you today
you were that overly independent
woman who
holds my hand when she wants
only to beat me in private
you dont get to pick
when you have someone
like you have me
i have no on off switch
i stay on
this is no co-dependence
this is me relying on you
for rescue from my own
loneliness
dramatization
and voice

i talk to my self in my sleep
without you
mostly jibberish
but that one percent
of real-life murmuring
that sobbing speech
MEANS something
im not sure what
quite yet
nor will i ever i suspect
im still taking notes though
but i guaran-*******-tee you
it doesnt mean things are swell
peachy ******* keen

i ask for no lap dog
but for a cohort
i desire no therapist
but for a co-conspiritor
i yearn for no nurse maid
but for an equal

a woman who
i dont have to teach
but am taught by
a fellow ex-patriot
who still believes in no borders
a woman with a skerple
ready to write on my walls

I had the world when I had you
I always said I just wanted happiness
But was too blind by my own "faults" to see forever in your eyes
I have no one to blame but myself
So please do not pity me
Ignore my dramatization
I will survive.
I just don't believe it yet.
I will smile someday
But for today
I cannot forgive myself.
I will not die
But I feel as if the world has ended
So
Don't worry for me.
I will be ok.
Someday.

I had entangled within her verses
                    that were never totally coherent
upon every verse.
               She spelt it in dyslexic
      dramatization  that I never understood.

We were meant to spell every movement,
                but we tripped over every emotion,
                and you were the thorn within me.
We never understood each others sentiment.

Ugly men had it easy
Women would just assume that they had
to have something going on for them
in order to atone for their misaligned eyes,
the crooked teeth, or the superabundance of fat
that has his arteries pleading for a mercy ****
from the next Baconator Cheeseburger that
rapes his intestinal tract
Fate just couldn't be so cruel
                  So a phenomenon takes place:

The Dramatization Of The Ugly Man's Qualities

His jokes are funnier, puns punnier, and his
presence is larger
He is the man among men
The ugly man is god
As long as he can support a woman's habits that is.....

We act so original,
but are so abysmal,
stop with the dramatization of your woe,
there are so many like you, as we know.
It's pathetic the way in which we perceive ourselves,
different, charismatic, on an unheard of level,
but we are just another item on the shelves,
yet we continue to look in the mirror and revel.
Take a look out the door,
realize there is so much more,
to being a human being,
than fighting to be a king.
It does not matter how you are distinct,
or in what ways someone is the same,
by being human we are all linked,
and you are not better by gaining fame.

So I must admit, you are not the first man I have written poems about. I know, I’m sorry to burst the bubble but I am in fact a hopeless romantic and have been writing poems in a journal online since I was in high school. The lack of emotion is actually just emotional suppression.

But the funny thing is, with all of the other men, I wrote about them like I started in your entry. Poetic. For me. Somewhat wistful. A romanization or dramatization of events. Full emo.

But what I have never done, is write in this style about a man. Like a journal entry I am assuming you are going to read one day.

I’ve always thought about giving the poems I wrote about my partner to him on our wedding as a gift.

But with others, I never wrote it in a journal entry or note style like they would actually someday read it.

Maybe that was my subconscious or intuition knowing they never would.

My words from yesterday
Inspiration that followed everlasting
The words that took there proper place
Yet sentences no one could ever erase
Proud and honor to be a Poet
But I am letting you know it
It became my writing movement in time
My words being like turn of revolve
But with the resolutions to solve
My purpose was and still is today
However, my internal and extending into external in stay
Sometimes you would find me writing even by the Bay
I never thought or dreams of ever being a Poet
I just started writing with positive encouragement, and the writing then followed
Pass Legends like Benjamin Franklin and Langston Hughes being my inspiration to write
Gave me mission to write and continue writing
My thoughts that were hidden stories locked in my mind
Yet a voice from within unlock and let your words come out
But friends were also my encouragement, as they stated I have a lot to tell about
My tomorrow simply arrived at the precise moment
Seconds came and it was a reckon expectation
However, I learned too make my writing a appreciation
It was write while you can
Then keep writing until then
But who would have thought?
Writing was a wonder to my eyes
Yet to the reader, what a surprise
Realization at it’s best
My own experiences that only I can confess
My dramatization being participation
My amazement being nothing up my sleeve
But confident in writing that one can achieve
Yet my own sentences sending a message like a refreshing breeze
Oh I just feel simply at ease
So now you know
I am my own Poet Legend, but not trying to make a show
I am only wanted to put you in the know
But I didn’t want to do a quick acceleration, but take it slow
Pass Legend Poets you, but wanted to be added to list
In other words, I wanted this to be a new twist
Writing seriously is totally from the mind
Yet be simple and kind
Reach out and write
Encourage others but with the plight
That describes me in plain sight
Oh the words and sentences that came out
I encourage too write on
But being a Poet, I know where I belong.

The plaintive cliché
of a Regal Soap-opera
finds frenzied homage
in barren minds lesser stooges
consumed in fevered malaise
devoid of rhyme and reasoning's
vacant incumbents trip in mirages
drunk on delusions and drugged on gainsays
gripped in angsts and cancerous in terminal malice
they squirm and twitch as they scribe their version of events
in the dramatization of only fools and horses to the Manor born
fantasies for escapisms an arm for an arm a leg for a leg are the commoners dreams and the commoners deal
save me a piece of the action, mate.....

Baby is lifeless baby is used out of her control. baby’s mind is drenched in spirits, baby’s whole soul is intoxicated out of her power. Baby can’t feel a thing.
Baby likes attention, baby likes eyeliner to morph into her god.
Baby likes to party; so baby can conceal weaknesses that she can’t attend to. Baby has lost what’s inside. Because baby is tiered, and baby hasn’t anyone by her side to tame her. baby likes to see how far she can pull away from care until she is lost. Until she is crumbled by the side of the road thrown out by the cab under city lights which shelter baby’s innocence. Innocence she longs to annihilate to prove her strength, independence perhaps.
Baby can’t feel; baby has her tears inhaled by spirits before she can let them treacle down her skin. Damaged tissue, layers of fatigue from stranger’s touch. Baby thinks she is a toy baby lets herself to be played with because she plays with those toys in reverse. She mirrors those she fears and hates the morning after.
But baby is grown. And, baby can live to forget and baby erases the regrets in her ego and her laughter. Baby thinks its okay and baby says it’s fun, but this baby is lacking nurture, milk. Gilded milk of age. Baby grew up lost, baby grew up a clown. These nights, these repetitive nights are countless revenge upon that foetus she hates. Foetus was a clown foetus had no power foetus was a peasant to beauty. Baby is a slave to beauty now, baby loses time for beauty. baby just needs validation.
Evil begins to spawn within her in the disguise of self-defence, as baby grew, she wanted to hurt, her ability to hurt was her weapon of retaliation to all those who rejected her. They become her victims in a new life, played by people in the night. Those she attacks, she pains by absence, ignorance. Baby simply wants to reverse roles baby just wants the power. Baby likes to think she needs no other soul in this world, her ego convinces her that alone is a soul mate itself and that peace can only be found within. Maybe love awaits her in another life. So baby inflicts pain instead.
Being alone, baby self-sabotages in an act where she is most social, as her liver suffers from poisons and she smiles through her teeth knowing her head might shatter within in any moment. Baby pretends its fun and baby soughts to find fun in a new body to conclude her self sabotage. When they touch her in the wrong places during the acts of the night baby hurts inside. but baby pretends for a moment that this lust is love as she abides to her plan. Her plan is a success when she questions herself in regrets the next morning. Regret is forbidden so baby laughs instead. I call it a romanticization of a lack of self worth.  Actually no I’m just intoxicated.
Mother observes from above and mother scolds’ baby, lectures her to swear to never put herself through it again because her baby is so golden. But baby always flees from her mother and baby hides it all from her mother. Mother knows best but baby can’t understand. Because how many times did mother say that this cycle won’t erase loneliness that this wont compare to the love her baby deserves. And how many times did mother give baby false expectations because baby still goes to sleep in a cold bed every night.
Baby stops for a moment as she writes to search for the full moon. It disappears. Was baby dreaming did baby just want a full moon to liger upon her for dramatization?

                                                                                 -
It hurts her to say but baby is gnawing inside to find a cure for the lack she feels. Although ego holds strong above the water, seeking to drown people to reach land, but under ego she bleeds she lost her compass under waters. Love and lust pull her feet under water, creatures of desire bite and ceases her float. Baby drowns in this ocean of lusting.

                                                                      -
Baby is me in the night, baby is my alcoholism and baby is my ego my weakness my ongoing search for validation or love. Mother is my soul mother knows this is a vicious cycle but baby escapes home and escapes from mother.