Countless hours we spend,
reading
between the lines hiding,
lying in lonely-beds
or sitting instead,
staring at the lit
techno-screens,
most of the night
& long into the day.

We find what remains,
is what will always be.
It will be the silence,
the loneliness that
keeps us at bay,
from outside-play,
and perhaps, maybe
from truly being.

But regardless
of despair,
we will always spill,
dribble,
scribble
our continuous
verse and rhyme,
our heartful-words,
it is our way,
the way of odists.

here's to all the beautiful people
with cracked facades and glorious souls
to the ones transparent and forgotten
who's mind's hear in rainbows and see in music
here's to the true odists and bards
who share their laughter and shine through pain
to all the invisibles within which the only true beauty resides
may you always share your truth
may we never become blinded to your grace

They are down by the seaside
making preparations
for my final departure.
Those brave souls,
brother & sister odists,
who understand such things,
are the true testaments of honor.
I see them piling
my grave offerings,
making their sacrifices.
For soon,
I will become
but a distant memory,
I will join the sacred gods,
those humble goddesses,
in the Heavens
& fall back a shooting star.
Remember me.

No one can deny the tenderness,
the feeling of such wet-friction,
those intimate-motions meant
to feel the genuine soul of another.

O the warm embrace,
face-to-pretty-face,
lip-to-luscious-lips acts,
the attraction of pheromones!

It is one of nature's truest gifts,
not to be abused as some do,
but to be savored, to be inhaled,
drank like the finest wine,
written about
by lonely romantic odists
who love such things.

And where are
those fields of clover
the lovers tell us about?

Pray tell me,
where is the sunshine
those romantics write of?

And those feelings of grandeur
odists shout about,
I am frantic
to find.

The muse left her mark on me,
but you can't see it.
It's buried deep
down inside me,
in a place where I hide
& contemplate
the meaning of the universe,
write endless verses
to recreate her meaning.

But maybe there is none.
Maybe it is what it is
& we meant nothing.

I think I know the meaning
to the ancient mystery,
it seems so clear to me.
Can't you see it too,
my fellow odists?
Broken hearts
are just what they are,
painful reminders
of what we lost.

And now,
sad poets
only
have written words
to tell the others
of such travesty.