The purest sense of understanding that allows two hearts to move beyond the borders of the conscious, thinking mind.

Without the thoughts that twist the words, that distort perception; what is conveyed, is... is... unconditional acceptance and love. In this simple concept we find solace, we find connection, we reach the precipice of and stare in awe at the beauty of the humane soul. Everything seems perfect.

 

By this perfection, given face value, we draw the ever permanent distinction between what what is black and what is white; what is wrong and what is right; what is virtue and what is moral travesty. For inherent to humanity is the eagerness, bias  and extremity with which we represent the good and evil of this world. For who would believe that the "caretaker", wrought of good intentions, could be soiled in his actions?

 

The caretaker that empathizes with the troubled or broken soul is a testament to the honesty of a human heart; but he who enables others with his empathy becomes not the caretaker, but the "jailer". Through his conviction to ALWAYS be there, to sooth the hurts, to understand the pains and to maintain control... by those actions, he belittles them. The relief of empathy is only temporary. Empathy does not enact change, it is mere salve and bandage, it quells the aches for but a moment. And when they return, in their woes, the service of the empathizer becomes requirement.

 

For though empathy may be needed, with the power to forge a bond of deep understanding, its indiscriminate use only stunts. Personal growth, it is found by many paths in this world. We must grow and mature; let others do the same. Life is a journey with many opportunities but also many hardships, we are defined by these. If we are stunted by the empathy of others, in their quest to protect us, we will never grow, never achieve that which is greater, and never leave our "prison".

 

Virtue or vice... once again in the hands of the beholder.

The porch waits behind the glass
It empathizes as needed
I step on it once again
And smoke in its graces

A compress over the cliff
We aspire at Deveraux
once again to hear
the ocean's rhythmic advice

And I do wince, such a daunting way
upon the enraged sky
A tormented face
looking at impassioned ways

And now a visitor appears
another tormented face
under a gossamer spun
brazen reds opulent yellows
pale blues push through
as it unravels
with a photograph

Her porch vacant once again
Mine thankful of its owner
to give a futile roll of discontent

And once again we listen and gaze
And once again we inhale the salt air
And once I saw because I stayed
Four dolphins shoulder the sand

its taken me too long to unstitch my hands and free every thought you shuffled and stuck inside of my head

one. i think you lost me somewhere between wanting to cross miles to get to me and forgetting i exist because at some moments it feels like you worked overtime to fix the abandon architectural artwork inside of me like i was community service

two. after you came and knocked down trees and shifted the tides, every ounce of clarity was able to mirror
your whimsical efforts of drowning me out with pretty girl phrases and only calling me when you were too high to choke out my name

three. i had something inside of me that was kept under glass and i let you behind closed doors and watched you destroy it
i let you build me up with toy blocks just how you wanted me, and i let you lose interest when you decided it was more fun to knock me down and listen to the noise i made when i hit the concrete

four. the Worlds Most Fragile museum was being catered to in the holes in my chest and if i was an armoire and you opened me up your name in red pen ink would spill out of me over thousands of artifacts and priceless memories that you've bubbled over and consumed

five. even as i write this, you'd think i would find a home in an elementary classroom by the way i can barely remember how to speak
and ive got no doubt that you went out with your usual bang
and when you left you took a goodbye that never quite delivered and all of my words with you

six. my grandmother told me insects sing, for months, the same song in hopes that they will attract a mate with their repetitive soliloquies and maybe that's my hope when i tell you i love you even when you hurt me, hope that maybe one day you will pick up the phone and echo my ache with a clear, sober melody that sounds like home.

im sure the insects will find someone who enjoys their neurotic patterns and im sure i will sleep alone in an uncomfortable bed only shushing the silence as the mailcart comes by my front lawn and pauses for a second as if it empathizes with the way i stand at the door.

seven. im always waiting for a manilla package addressed to me
containing every night i spent trying to be anxiously clever and overlooking your bad judgement and the flickers across your sentences where you were forcing yourself to care

eight. every night all i receive is the crickets and a reminder that the letters that spell out your name had become my own personal hamartia before i started whispering it in my sleep

nine. ever since we met you've infected my veins like you were a deadly back alley drug and there's something so addicting about wanting to fix someone and figure them out and work for their love

ten.  if you steal my expressions and bury them in your ground and stick a wooden stake through my last words in order to make sure i only resurface when your sobriety is fully compromised, i will, as writers do, create myself a new dictionary

the act of your name will become a verb: forcing time to scrub the inside of every part of me you touched like im a sold off garage sale item and you're trying to expurgate any emotional damage that might have been done to lower my price

the way the bugs echo will become an adjective for when i am too tired to go out and pretend that my feet arent sinking into the floor

the drilled-for-oil glass museum in my heart will become a noun;  the eighth wonder of the world, and i will continue to let people destroy it and piece it back together for the sake of art

the way you left me and the ferocity of how you stole every part of me i showed you will join adverbs and Aristotle's tragedy principles among people who created their own cloudbursts.

the way i wrap everything i've wanted to say to the back of your head as you walk away into a bulletpoint essay will become my new definition for poetry and i will build myself up from the ashes i will create from your destruction, i will sing my own songs and showcase my own museums and mail my own letters and i will **continue.

I've got the world's best kept secret
locked in 2 AM screenshots--
her late night musings over a crusty joint, a crushed pill,
or some ***** cigarettes.

She sends me her thoughts,
fears,
anxieties,
insecurities--

at her most vulnerable,
absolutely the most beautiful.

Her anguish stressed in the digital scroll
(though she doesn't like Kerouac, I let her borrow my copy),
her stained fingers mashing all their hurt and nicotine
into the keyboard--

and her pen aches and her paper stains
with the unrequited love she empathizes with
in the somber pop punk songs that explode from the stereo
she sings loudly on cold and lonely night drives
(I shiver in her passenger seat).

And she made for me the greatest of mixtapes,
her holy scrawl expounding upon a dull grey donut-shaped
slowly fading form of intimacy,
a blank CD--

"This mix is a good time"

and when I jammed it into my car stereo I was illuminated.

She is so cool, she is so punk,
and in her clandestine drugstore car charger thefts,
broken poems,
impalpable aesthetic,
impeccable music taste,
illuminated or even further obfuscated drug trips--

I have the world's best kept secret,
and more than anything, I wish to share it with you--

                                     so she can make someone another mixtape.

One day it will rain.
The soothing water will wash
away the sins of the world.
The sun will shine.
Its light like liquid gold.
Behold! The Miracle!
Pain erased, sorrow forgotten.
Tomorrow will cease to be as well as
yesterday.
Only today will remain. Nothing will matter;
everything remembered.
The SON OF MAN will greet the children of his Father.
Tears no more. The Human Condition restored
to what Father planned.
Thwarted by the KING OF LIES.
Won back by the KING OF LIVES.
Everyone bows. Mountains crumble. Lakes deepen.
The SON laughs at humility.
After all he is but a Man.
Humanity at its finest.
Though his Condition no better.
Like a shepherd he leads on.
The strays and the lost
He has not forgotten nor forsaken.
Though they have.
They are sorry. They see their mistakes wishing for a second chance.
Their tears
wet the path to
Damnation.
The river of tears flows.
Engulfed by the flame.
The Fallen grins.
He is happy.
Misery loves company and He is misery.
The Anointed cries with them.
The SON empathizes.
-They are human.
He leads them with his crook.
Their tears dry. The river a cracked bed.
The flames subside. Morning Star laments
-It's not fair!
SON counters
-And what do you know about equality?
The gate is open. The future awaits.
Brighter than the Luminous City up the path.
The Struggle is over.
Peace begins.

The darkness is everywhere
It tries to eat you inside for it doesn't care
It comes in many shapes and sizes
But it never empathizes
All it wishes is to enter your heart and infect your brain
Causing you to hurt everyone and go insane
It is something that will always be around until the end of time
And it's own creation should've been a crime
But it's merely a test
To see who is suited best
For this world is the game of the gods as the bet on the lives of others for their own amusement
Creating their own darkness for the enemies torment
Even though they do this and use all life as pawns
The game will always go on
But we can help each other in this game
For our lives equal the same
And even though the darkness doesn't effect me anymore
Your heart is still an open door
So do as I say
And everything is okay
And that is to look at life through the way of others
And try to help for we are sisters and brothers
And without each other to rely on
Our entire species would not last long
So I hope that one day you can take a look through the shoes of others
For you never know what has happened to another
And if you think I'm just spewing nonsense and a big ol lie
Try to remember what made you hurt and cry.

It's a surprise
Or at least some dark form of it
when you find yourself distantly hoping
that the steaming water from a shower head
spraying the spirit of the sun and others alike
empathizes to such an extent with the flesh
that the heat radiating from the water,
liquid, evaporating freedom,
alights a fire of a more human disposition.
To burn to a counter-intuitive death
in a counter-intuitive world
filled with counter-intuitive people
while those who willfully express their care at the second of desperation
and not before
idle gleefully in ignorance.

Surprising.

To ask for love would not be true.

Love is given freely, a soul seeking not its own.

A passionate pursuit that's never-ending.

The in-born desire to bask in the presence of another.

The thirst of more until you heart feels it might burst.

To delight in every little mystery unveiled.

To give without expectations.

To forgive the imperfections.
To question your self-seeking intentions.
To right the wrongs of your own inventions.

Love is to wait with enduring patience.

Love sees the potential and brings forth the superlative.

It is shelter from the cruelties of life.

It takes pleasure in honoring those it protects.

Love is time and it warms with affection.

It yearns only to be returned.

Its light exposes the truth of your very existence.

It conceives.
It breathes.
It believes.

Love rejoices in the little things, like a smile.

It empathizes with your painful circumstances.

It carries you when you've lost your strength.

It brings forth courage when there would otherwise be none.

It extends into far reaching places.

It changes even the hardest of situations.

Love fights for what is righteous.

True Love is not overrated.
Should not be underestimated.
Makes simple what is complicated.

Inspired by the triumphs of others.

Treasures its beloved far beyond earthly possessions.

It's grateful for opportunities it is given.

Its nature is pure and good.

It is a gift that was meant to be shared.

The world would be uninhabitable without it.

Immeasurable is its essence.

you don't pay attention to me
empathizes with someone else
but not me.

I am a witness.
I don't want to be.

You are my friend, stay by me.
your mouth start moving
different sounds I can distinguish.

I see rivers that form slowly.
I see eyes glowing.
I see  tired genes
stick themselves until you blink.

the hurt, the pain, the guilt.
I take your hand and you squeeze.

I feel a paper in your palm,
unfold is a poetry
so I start to read:

                                      *I enjoy you like a rainy day
                                       whatever you do, I become delightful.

                                       I'm so glad that I have you.
                                       I'm glad that you smile and touch me
                                       I'm glad that you read and walk with me
                                       and I am glad you show me how you feel.

It was for him, you say to me.
you seem lost, I will not leave.

I've stopped being beautiful quite a long time ago. Mirrors and selfies do not tell the truth; I actually like what I see. Little did I know the ugliness reeks from the blind spots and I shamelessly think it's the world who's at fault.

Forgive me, daughter, for I have sinned.

All I want to hear is an apology. I lift my chin and walk past the mother, idle as a bystander. I am a child bird, my beak is tired from breaking the shell. I wish I didn't have these wings. The nest is uncomfortable, I just want to touch the ground.

I have two feet. One thigh.

Ocean is my ancient dream. But all I got to taste was cold aloe vera. Hint of sweetness, eternal like a dentist's craft. I can't feel pain, so it must be joy, but why am I crying?

We got tired of the cries, the tears, the traces. It's boring, just like an authoritarian news. I don't think there's more to it. What you see is what you get.

I hide everything I can. I mask what I can't. That way, I'm never left with nothing. I hope so. I am so hopeful. I must be cured.

I fill my water bottle with starlight, but when it touches my mouth it takes away the wetness. My lips crack and I can no longer talk. I nod at the earth, and she empathizes.

A thing I can never do. My fingers still long for the colorful helium balloons. How many of it to make me float? I want to explode right on my peak. Cry for me, strangers. I want to hurt you in ways I've never imagined before.

This body is my palace of water and dust.
It is my earth,
my whole,
my entire empire.
Contained within my skin is a world
of complex systems and relationships
too immaculate to comprehend.

I lay myself bare continually.
Exposed vulnerable and strong, I embrace the wind.
Flexible and malleable, I bend and shift but hold my
center--
somehow my center holds.

I contain every natural phenomenon,
and each of them contain me completely.
I see my reflection in the water and I am the water,
I see the bark on a tree and my skin empathizes,
I smile and my soul takes on the wings of the butterflies
and flirts with the leaping wind.

And you come in and you dump your **** in my rivers,
oil and chemicals polluting my veins.
You mine my depths for the gold and discard the soil,
you exploit my purity.
You ignore my warnings and pleads as if you don't understand my language.
You are the ones who don't believe in climate change,
as if facts were fiction.
You don't believe in your impact on my existence.
You carry on as if i am worthy of nothing but disposal
and exploitation,
as if i am not as intrinsically valuable as you are.

Do you not see yourself in me?
Do you not see your own reflection in the waters of my eyes?
Do you not recognize the similarity in our skin?
Our commonality in the blood that pounds like torrential floods
on the windows of our souls
reminding us that we live?

Do you not see the web of life that binds us
so intrinsically together?
We are as inseparable as inhale and exhale.
We need each other--
we are the same process,
the same breath.

Ambitious
Always looking to improve
Follows through on what he says he will do
Patient and kind
Loves my body
as much as my mind
Looking for a partner in life.
(not a token, soon-to-be wife).

Serious, passionate,
but knows when to let loose.
Makes me laugh,
his personality
eager and endearing;
his humor
absurd and sarcastic.

He doesn't ask what I want to do,
but if I ask
he'll be down to do it too.
He wants me to be apart
of his friend group.
He's charismatic but grounded.
My parents and extended
would adopt him in a second.
He helps my dad in the yard.
He helps me when I'm stuck
in a broken down car.

He's cute and insanely smart.
His kisses leave me weak from the start.
He always honest and upfront,
reflective about any harm he's caused
to anyone.

He's everyone's doorman,
but no doormat.
A attentive confident.
A best friend.

He is well-read
but can see
what's missing on
the page.
He isn't afraid
of what he hasn't read
or what he doesn't know...yet.

He's not a hipster
or pretentious
but isn't against kale chips
or anything equally ridiculous.

He has a passion,
maybe two,
but isn't so absorbed
he forgets
there are other things too.
But isn't just floating either.
He has some direction;
He is looking to inspire.

He's a feminist
and not because
it's PC and cool.
He empathizes
with the issues
and is interested
in talking WITH
women about them.

He's comfortable
chilling with my friends.
Even the most
difficult people
don't bother him.

He is healthy.
Does some sort of physical
activity. Loves getting physical
with me. Is not opposed
to going down on me.
But isn't like obsessed with it.
That's just weird.

Interested in actively
deepening our
physical and emotional
relationship.

For him,
everyday is an adventure
he'd love to spend with me.

He plans at least half our dates.
He rarely complains.

I need someone who's there for me
Through good and bad times
Who has nothing but love and respect
Someone who smiles and cries with me
Who not only makes me laugh when I'm sad
But knows how to make me feel better
And empathizes with my sorrow

Apalachee High School,
located in Winder, Georgia
witnessed an active shooter,
whereby the alleged lone gunman
(actually just a teenager of fourteen years)
killed four people and injured nine more
the latter hospitalized with injuries
after a shooting Wednesday
(June 4th, 2024) morning.

His (the lad who pulled the trigger
on the firearm – an AR platform-style gun)
father and mother must be held culpable,
and similar to the slain victims
surviving kith and kin
probably experience immense grief
(at least I would hope).

Yours truly (me),
a married sexagenarian and proud papa,
whose two grown daughters;
a twenty five old, lives in Bend, Oregon
and eldest - almost twenty six months
her kid sister's senior
resides within bucolic Ithaca, New York,
whereby he himself
dwells at Highland Manor Apartments
smack dab within the heart of
Perkiomen Valley, Pennsylvania
nestled here within suburban
southeastern Montgomery County
deeply affected by the tragedy
(as well as most previous occurring
violent, nasty, and brutish ****** crimes.

The Second Amendment of the United States Constitution protects the right of Americans to keep and bear arms. The original text of the Second Amendment is:

“A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed”.

The Second Amendment was ratified on December 15, 1791. Its origins can be traced back to ancient Roman and Florentine times, and to the late 16th century in England when Queen Elizabeth I required all classes of people to take part in a national militia.

I (a slight baby boomer at approximately
seventy inches tall from stem to stern
targeted as "scapegoat" during boyhood),
no longer a ticking time bomb harboring
rage against the machine,
would never buy nor use a weapon
intended to fire rapidly
loosing countless bullets,
nevertheless writer of these words
empathizes, sympathizes and telepathizes
third-person singular simple present
indicative forms of empathize,
sympathize, and telepathize respectively
with the predictable cited suspect,
who frequently trends toward being
a quiet natured, nerdy lad
at the receiving end
of verbal and physical harassment.

Still back in the day mean kids
indiscriminately name called me
attendant with closed fists
mere inches from my face -
both boys and girls made a point
to assail introspective
severely shy Matthew Scott Harris
pleading with cruel, fiendish, imps -
of the pervert please don't hurt me
and repeated the following saying:
sticks and stones may break my bones,
but words will never hurt me
(or so the playground adage
wants us to believe).

Words do hurt and the shame
those words can instill in us
have a way of instigating and
perpetuating inferiority complex
in our minds and our bodies.

Easy access to high powered military grade sophisticated woud find blunderbuss quaint.

     More often than not such brutal and nasty (short lived) nefarious schemes directed at humble lettered people (like those comprising my home town of Lake Woebegone) minding their own p's and q's, when out of the blue a sudden bitta bing bitta bang rings the terrorist catcall followed by red tide and river of blood.

     Thus occurs yet another staccato sinister sonic soundcloud boom across the pearl gray slate of some formerly anonymous place-name. which blitzkrieg of shells shattering (at shutterfly speed) the democratic rubric of society with senseless slaughter, whereat somber silence echoes the wails of agony.

     This epidemic re: murderous love affair with gruesome morbid fixation allowing, enable and providing the terrifying trappings for angry person to maniacally gun down (in slo mo) a milling crowdsource (perhaps pathetic plan premeditated) employing coterie of odious loading incendiary fiery clips.

     Suicide bombardier seeks to slake thirst to take aim with deadly precision, and spray with pump posse city, a congregated engaged group of people), with egregious fulfillment to mow down slew unsuspecting victims, which bring revulsion to this American citizen.

     Death be not proud, nor ought airtime allocated to these heinous cavalier avengers.

     Foe tee eight hour special proffers especial easy access to sophisticated high caliber compact offspring of rapaciously lethal gimcrackery cutlasses.

     Sorrow soulful songs sung by the likes of death cab for cutie in tandem with foo fighting beastie boys pay homilies and homage to grateful dead.

     Fetishistic martyrs wannabe set sights of sister and brothers of their same simian species.

     Once target(s) locked and stocked per skull and cross bones, the ammunition barrels at greased lightning speed dead set upon unaware persons. the final minutes/seconds of various lives instantaneously cut short, when instagram cross hairs seal the fate upon avast group of happy go lucky men and women.

     Instantaneous re: within the blink and/or flickr of and eye, the gallivanting live capital one progressive pinterest-ting human hulu hooping unwittingly accompany the grim reaper as riders to final resting place.

     Ribald exhortations and allegiance gifted from he/she who ushered in bereavement, where grief experiences a field day, whence pandora gorges philabundance like, as incalculable forsaken emptiness doles bleakness upon a grim outlook brought about per spilt blood, sweat and tears tallying the cost.

     Mortal kombat rues unfathomable payless priceline, which induces adrenaline to course thru the melee, where survivors sprint non selfie ish lee to a safer outlook, where moments before the collective asylum seekers indulged in a joyus fancy feast per vanity fair, whence diehard fanatic (attired inconspicuously like some dishabille schlepper of an outlier) pulled the trigger releasing high powered voluminous ammunition loaded murderous mass homicidal instrument.

     Netzero escape for those unfairly killed in ceaseless undeclared warfare, whereby killer (ofttimes a pissant punk) cooly unleashes fearsome fusillade from out the barrel per his/her lethal methodological munitions.

A wolf,
All alone,
On his lonesome,
Waiting for prey…
Wondering if love,
Is worth the pain…
A sheep stranded far away,
From its herd,
The strangest sheep you’ve ever heard.

This one thinks for itself,
Despite the stereotype,
Of the mindless zombies.
This one thinks it’s something else,
The first of her kind,
Her childish pride.
Her herd says that love is a lie,
A double-edged sword,
A failing dance,
They advise against,
Searching for true love,
A foolish gambit.
She thinks she’ll break the mold,
Be something more than what she’s told,
But her beating heart will be her demise,
As the wolf takes its prize.

The wolf steps out from the forest,
With a coy look on his face,
The sheep is surprised,
And capsized.
She’s been thrown into the waves,
Her heart betrayed her in a million ways.
With a look of interest, she approaches,
As the wolf prepares his script,
He smiles and winks, checking the boxes,
As he licks his lips.

He says,
“Haven’t you heard,
About the predators,
That roam in these woods?
What’s a thing such as yourself,
Doing this far away,
From the herd?”

She says,
“I’m not afraid of danger,
I’m here to break the mold.
You don’t seem quite as scary,
As the elders foretold.
I find the flock a burden,
Following a fool’s lead,
I am an independent,
I’ll go where my heart and mind agree.”
The wolf smiles with glee,
His prey is his guaranteed.

The sheep notices scars,
One on his ear,
And one by his heart,
She empathizes and opens her own,
Ready to hear the stories unfold.

The wolf smiles and points at the one at his ear.
“This one’s from a coyote who cowered in fear.”
He pointed next to the one by his heart.
“My mom tried to tear me apart.”
The sheep’s soul aches and groans,
Feeling empathy for a wolf unknown,
Smiling softly she asks for his name.
“Anwir,” He says and bows his head.
“Amora,” She responds, bowing along.

Time moves on,
And the pair grow close.
Their love so strong,
It could be a blaze,
And turn the woods,
To an ashen decay.
If only it was,
More than a farce,
Made up by a wolf,
To lure his prey.
So he plays his part,
His life was a stage,
Waiting for the sacred day.

The wolf offers to walk the sheep,
To a place where silence would creep.
The sheep agrees,
Calls it a date,
The wolf smiles with glee,
Sealing the sheep’s fate.

He leads her along,
A stream and a meadow,
Where they got along,
And grew closer together,
All part of his master plan,
Buying time,
To lure her to her end.

He takes her to the precipice,
With nearby mighty cliffs,
The sheep stares into,
The starry night sky.
The wolf feels split in two,
Instinct or love,
He cannot decide.
He remembers his mom,
Who tried,
To eat him to survive.

He lunges,
She thrashes,
She cries,
Her last.
“Why?”
She asks him.
He bows his head,
Before pushing her body,
Of the face of the cliff…

He sits down and gazes at the moon,
So full,
So pure,
Upon instinct, he howls,
Then it clicks,
His actions make no sense.
He flashes back to the sheep.
Smile and eyes,
That pleased him so.
He thinks of her question,
“Why?”
He starts to cry.
Love at first sight,
Ended under a starry night,
With no reason why,
Thus, is played,
The game of life…