The limited palette of the January riverbank,
#nomakeup #nofilter
just the burst capillaries and thread veins
bare

A tired earthy visage,
still allures the blackbird and wren
who never truly got the hang
of saying when
and feast past decency

The idea is to recuperate
and re-emerge fresh and green
but truth seems more like this molasses mud
that hold boots firm

Under the bridge
Pills, muscle & back relief
Empty
Cigarettes, mirror pond pale ale
Sail away from consciousness
**** slowly
Socials Studies 10 homework
Conflicted cultures, transient economy
Fur hats
Exploration, exploitation, for
Fur hats!
Litter, candy wrapper
What are you underneath that pretty shell?
Hard heart
Soft heart
Fragile
Pencil
Potential
Lost hope, failed system
Failure
Still the stream runs on, runs away
A steady hum, a constant purr
Pure
Impure
Sinner  
One day the stream will dry
And be forgotten, swept away into
Oblivion
Our memories, our ghosts
Numbed by the sound of water
Vanishes in time's cascade
Like pioneers and their fur hats.

Depression, Depression the feeling of emptiness always a challenge to fill it with happiness. One of my favorite songwriters is Nick Drake his somber yet powerful lyrics about not be able to connect with people and depression really helped me in times of personal trouble. I was diagnosed very early on in my childhood with depression I started reading a lot listening to music looking outside my window watching the other children play knowing how I would not be able to connect socially. When my parents divorced I realized that my life began to go in a downward spiral then I discovered Nick Drake. I felt connected to him in some way as if I was a incarnation of him. When I listen to his music I feel the same sense of hopelessness the same feelings of isolation. At times I feel stronger for going through this permanent pain but then I think to myself what of my future. That question races though my mind it almost like its making me a restless ghost during those cold dark nights. Through my high school years I still felt the same isolation with people as when I was a child. But the big difference was that I didn’t place a big smile on my face when I knew everything was not alright. This time I expressed my feelings in a more mature and realistic way. I started to write a lot in my spare time I usually wrote a lot of isolated characters trying to find that source of happiness that would free them of their personal pains. Once I wrote a short story about a girl that I fell in love with being a huge fan of F.Scott Fitzgerald I described the main character as the girl all the boys want but can ever have. With a combination of Nick Drakes lyrical style and F Scott Fitzgerald’s plot structure I wrote a love story that defined my inner feelings that I couldn’t really express with verbal communication. Sometimes I believe when people socialize verbally it establishes a more meaningful connection but for me developing socializing socials wasn’t so verbal but it was with writing and listening to music where I developed a sense of identity that was a real morale booster to continue living life with the aspirations of success and personal happiness.

I Keep being weak and checking your socials onece or twice a week
Just to watch my moods drop from highs to lows
I don't know what makes me look back
I guess it's the memory of being loved to blame for that

The Night hosts her socials for the monsters inside and out
In the moonlight we come dancing, clinking bottles, wandering about
We are goblins, ghouls, mummies, witches, zombies and misfits alike
Dressed up in our finest tuxedos, pearls, lace, bloodstains and the like

The Daylight wont have us, but the Night plays hostess to our monster bones
She slips into her midnight blue party dress and she puts on the Ramones
And we dance
we dance
we dance

O, we are the dark psychopaths, the feared, the soulless creatures
We companions by the moonlight are shaking, stammering vultures
We are friends in wayward trudges, we are spitting, foaming vermin
We are in love       We are the World's rejected kin

The ghouls and the witches and our old zombie friends,
The World's most dark and repulsive in clear-cut diamonds,
We monsters aren't alone in the night, drunken, broke and hideous,
Charming and disgusting, we are the Night's beloved insidious

In the night, we are happy, giddy, wasted children
We are the Fiend Club, we are the monster brethren
Until we are caught, disfigured, drunk and red-handed        by the Daylight
And we make our way home, to crawl under the floorboards        and sleep until twilight
Until the Night's long fingers slip an invitation under the door
And we will put our party dresses and our tuxedos on once more

*O, the moon is out and the Fiend Club has woken
The Night is young and we are broken

For gory guys and glamour ghouls

The Night hosts her socials for the monsters inside and out
In the moonlight we come dancing, clinking bottles, wandering about
We are goblins, ghouls, mummies, witches, zombies and misfits alike
Dressed up in our finest tuxedos, pearls, lace, bloodstains and the like

The Daylight wont have us, but the Night plays hostess to our monster bones
She slips into her midnight blue party dress and she puts on the Ramones
And we dance
we dance
we dance

O, we are the dark psychopaths, the feared, the soulless creatures
We companions by the moonlight are shaking, stammering vultures
We are friends in wayward trudges, we are spitting, foaming vermin
We are in love       We are the World's rejected kin

The ghouls and the witches and our old zombie friends,
The World's most dark and repulsive in clear-cut diamonds,
We monsters aren't alone in the night, drunken, broke and hideous,
Charming and disgusting, we are the Night's beloved insidious

In the night, we are happy, giddy, wasted children
We are the Fiend Club, we are the monster brethren
Until we are caught, disfigured, drunken, red-handed        by the Daylight
And we make our way home, to crawl under the floorboards        and sleep until twilight
Until the Night's long fingers slip an invitation under the door
And we will put our party dresses and our tuxedos on once more

*O, the moon is out and the Fiend Club has woken
The Night is young and we are broken

if you miss me, close your eyes you'll see
me smiling at you knowing it's you I need
always be around, whether you are feeling up or down
to you I'm forever bound, queen to my world
you own the crown, enchanted I'm spellbound
whipped our love profound
with me
you'll never shed a tear or frown
glad you I found
my love circular you it surrounds
carrying you to a higher plain beyond the clouds
like EM we space bound, soaring on wings of love
Osbourne
elated we soar, if you need me
knock on my door
text, call,
dm on socials, be there in an instant
so that you don't miss me for a second
when you call nothings more important
we courted today forever together you worth it
we deserve it, we'll go the distance in the
clouds by angels its written
nothing we are lacking
fun fact is we meant to be
our love reminiscent
of energy, that powers the sun its glowingly
lighting up our lives as each other we breathe
lovingly it's the oxygen we need together
we ascend it how we feel
feels with you the perfect hand i was dealt

“What’s your name again?”
He asks me.
“Have we met before?”
He asks me.
Yes we’ve met.
I remember the first time I saw you up close.
I was too scared to look into your eyes so I just looked at your hands.
I could’ve looked at them all day.
They were beautiful.
Not in a soft and polished kinda way,
but a strong and rough way.
It’s like they told stories of your manhood and all I wanted to do was put them up to my face and listen to what they had to say.
But you ask me…
“What’s your name?”
I guess you were all business.
Filming for your job and I was just a prop.
A nameless
plain
unimportant
prop.
You had to edit over an hour of footage with me in the background.
Twirling the ribbon in my Bible scared that if I looked up I would just stare at you.
You had to type my name.
First and last.
But you ask me…
“What’s your name?”
I thought of us before even laying eyes on you.
I remember the first time I saw your face.
We’ve only been going to church together for three months now.
I’ve only been staring at you every Sunday for three months now.
But you ask me…
“What’s your name?”
Your profile popped up on my Facebook and I thought it was fate.
I wasn’t looking for your profile.
I didn’t even know your name yet.
I lost sleep because of you.
It wouldn’t surprise me if I said your name in my sleep.
I checked your socials like an old man checks the morning paper.
But you ask me…
“What’s your name?”
Don’t worry about my name,
if you don’t know it now you will never learn it.
If you wanted to remember my name you would have.
So don’t waste my time with asking me now.
“WHAT’S YOUR NAME?”
My name is worthless
unlovable
invisible.
But I don’t say any of this out loud.
I tell you my name while I feel my heart tighten.
My name is…
But once I tell you my name you repeat it like it’s a question.
It’s like a song I want to play on repeat until I get sick of it.
I want to hear you say my name over and over and over again.
But you won’t.
You have another girl’s name to say.
While you forget mine,
I remember yours like a bad song I wish I never heard.
A song that’s so bad it’s good.
What’s my name…
Maybe my name isn’t worth remembering.

slang..
updogged = when you chip in to keep a conversation trend going
fit = gorgeous
buje = unexplainable glamor
football minute = a minute, that with time-outs, lasts a half an hour.
crute = cute but cringy
women's-rights = a really funny joke

In the subscribed course of science - and eventually medicine - night hours seem multiplied by the rough enforcement of study, but this tale is not about that, fair reader.

It’s about a reception, last Friday night. It hardly matters what it was for, there are so many. This one was first class - so please, have some decorum ladies. Our cast is Lisa, Leong, Sunny and I (4 roommates). We stay clumped together, on nights out, like conjoined quadruplets because there’s safety in numbers.

There were about sixty people there, mostly students. Lisa and I had gotten invitations, Leong and Sunny are our plus-ones. After making the rounds, doing our meeting and greeting due diligence, we’d captured one corner of a long table and began enjoying some actual drink-drinks. We’re usually studying, trying to prove ourselves like rats in a maze, so we go a little crazy when they let us out and about.

Is it me, or are free drinks just better than other flavors? There was a long line of ‘Tom Collins-ses,’ on the bar which one could freely walk up and take. I think they’re made with lemon juice, sprite, gin and the tears of fallen angels.

These were quite good, each featuring both a lemon slice AND a cherry. Like I said, first class. We were taking turns getting them, two of us going up, each returning with 2 drinks. That way we didn’t look like 4 hookers hanging on the bar like horses at a trough (decorum).

Socials, receptions, fundraisers - whatever - can be social minefields. Even in how you greet people. Do you shake hands? I’d heard that shakes were out due to COVID, but if so, they’re back now. Some people were even huggers - your professor initiates a hug and you just want to avoid head-butting him. Monday morning though, you better hand in that paper, girlie.

At one point (I was mothering my third Collins), Sunny said, “Meeting people is awkward,”
“Being out in the world is awkward,” I updogged.
“Not for Lisa,” Leong said, and everyone sniggered.
“Why not ME?” Lisa said, looking up from her phone.
“Because you’re fit,” Sunny said, “everywhere you go, it’s like ‘Goodfellas,’” she mimics various, waving people, “Hi Lisa, or Hey Lisa," and “Yo Lisa!” with the point & nod.
We all chuckled again, but Lisa said, “It’s not true.”

Alas, it is true. I’ve come to rely on Lisa’s buje. Places seem livelier, less daunting and more welcoming when she’s there. She draws all the attention - I might as well be her beaded handbag and I’m fine with that. In unfamiliar situations, she’s a shield, handling the initial introductions and handing people off to me, like a track-and-field sprinter passing the baton. Without Lisa, in new situations I’m quiet. Quiet doesn’t mean shy - that’s a false assumption, I’m a natural watcher.

I’m skipping the mingling and speechifying - the boring stuff. Apparently, it’s all about us, we need to make a plan and do more, about everything. Interestingly, of the 8 organizers (the adults) five had literary first names. There was a Jude, a Tess, an Ophelia, a Clarissa and a Cordelia. Granted, they’re all fictional characters, but why name a kid after a protagonist who came to a tragic end - to seem well read?

As Leong and Sunny returned with our fifth round, Sunny pronounced “Tom Collins for President!” and we all raised our glasses. Just then Leong’s phone whooped with a text. It took her football minute to fish the contraption out of her itty-bitty disco-clutch, and then she fumbled it to the floor like an oiled baby.

It was a crute moment that, at first, struck us like women's-rights - but it had a sobering effect too. We agreed, in the silence of exchanged glances, that perhaps we were having too much fun, and we soon made our usual quiet and dignified exit.

Sometimes I feel the dry air on my parched heart feel the faith in hope and love streaming out from the delta the fingers crossed timbers lost in the hurricane of hail Marys and weak end roller coasters, so many saccharin socials and UN  I'd ent if ied flights sauce erd threw the night what will it take to cure me right? Fallow friend and hallowed brother dreams are where we reunite but I wish that fog would clear and I fear that rest just might your mother seems young at gaze but those bones are weary from the fight and I am weary too so I said all that just to say where the havens are you?

I sit here on the side
Of my own long road
Listening to the memories
Of crickets and toads
As I remember back
To years of childhood
Spent feeling lucky
To be in the wildwood.

No car horns honking
No neighbors screaming.
No jarring realities to
Waken me from dreaming.
The breezes and the stars
The city kid changing gears
Creating a landscape that has
Resided in me through the years.

Ice cream socials and songs
Sung in the church nearby
Bringing tears to my eyes
But I did not know why.
Why did these simple folks
So very glad to be alive
Smile through the foment
Then go right on to thrive?

They had no television,
Some had radios to hear
They relied on Farmer’s Almanac
To help them through the year.
They made their way themselves,
Knew when to plant and to reap.
When to harvest and store food;
Early to rise and early to sleep

They had a car and a tractor
But seldom had to leave home.
They bought this farm
When they lost the urge to roam.
We didn’t go to movies then,
But weddings and funerals
Brought friends together;
Cousins aunts and uncles.

At summers end I went back
To the city I knew so well
And got used to being there
After a rather touchy spell.
The water tasted differently
And Grandma was a great cook.
So, a whole lifetime later
Those days deserve another look.

Dear Grandfather,
You are missed more than a thousand Chinese lanterns,
but I know you are not lost, nor are you off track,
I'm sure you float among the stars
sipping sweet red wine on mars
& play cards on the dark side of the moon

I still hope that one day God will grant you with furlough
to escape the bony handed captivity of reapers,
so that you can sit next to your loved ones,
and we can have coffee party's at 6 am
and ice cream socials at 9

I'd apologize for weeping even when you told me not too,

I'll always remember that you are the diamond glints on the snow,
and that you don't sleep so we can watch king of the hill and HBO all night long

and when your furlough is over
I'll know that when I wake up the next the day that you did not die,
I'll just call it going on vacation,
I've always wanted to go to space,
and one day I will see you there,
and we can surf meteors or make memories in the constellations.

but over all I'll always think of you when it rains,
and I'll try my best not cry when I visit your grave.

Always know I love you,
You're Granddaughter,
Emily.

they all got that new phone

that just came out last week

and with that and their cars,

they have noodles to eat

updating their socials

while at work at their job

and living so "healthy"

so wealthy

top shelf

with a case of Top Ramen

and e-books on self-help

a whole nation arranged

not to think, but consume

if this is our future, I'd say

we're all doomed

Those who look down are more likely to look up.
While those that look across get lost.
Avoid the mess of the world and focus on yourself.
You're neither lion nor lamb nor cross.

Stay humble, but do not swear it.
The socials breed luxury and glares.
Be humble, and keep sharing it.
The simplicity that values deep care.

Those who look down are more likely to look up.
While those that look across get lost.
Heaven and earth will tie into you.
As you know yourself among the lost.

Stay humble, but do not swear it.
The socials breed luxury and stares.
Be Humble, and keep sharing it.
It's simplicity that values deep caring.

So stay Humble, but do not swear it.
The socials breed luxury and glares.
Be Humble, and keep sharing it.
It's sovereign to value deep care.

The overlying theme of this generation
Is veneration for people practicing subjugation over other nations

Private socials are the new public places
Where they run from other faces
Just to fake feel the safest
While they make racist statements

Acting out like cavemen
But somehow claim a falsified sense of sophistication
Irony resulting from a lack of education
Little white lies to fill the empty black spaces

Over saturated pale faces for replacement
The only history they have lacks origination
Dissatisfied with their own situations
They'd buy your black skin if it was worth their down payment

Hypocritical to a sense literal
Coincidental how the long arm of the law
Tends to bend the rules

And grade the 'colored' on a curve
Being vain, with their emotions hues change
So it's easy to see who has the nerve

Claiming ties to land they've never been from
Accomplishing feats and mastering the weather was one
Makes you wonder how'd the pyramids ever get done
While shedding skin, getting burnt and turning red in the sun

What a creature...

Okay but do we ever really stop loving them ?
Stop thinking about they way they made us feel ?
Stop thinking about them before going to sleep ?
Stop stalking their socials ?
Stop thinking if they miss us ?
Stop thinking about how it would have been if we never broke up ?
Is there a line somewhere ? Anywhere ?

Empathic

I feel the worlds suffering
I feel the sadness of lost souls
I feel the love in stangers hearts, a flame that will never burn out
I feel the anti socials anxiety
I feel
I feel everything

I feel everything so passionately
I burst in to tears
I bust out in laugher
The energy is just too much to ignore
I feel everything
I feel everyone

galactic eruption
interrupts a stroll down the memory lane
linear meta brain
meticulously performing the act of
self restraint
selfless worships
now, lesser in terms of quantitative hints
the never ending path
that circumvents the colourless
conscience
it contravenes the limitless scenes of a liberating regime
trust plummets into the hands of perceptive fiends
taken in
taken instead of countless numbered pills
a train of exaggerated kin
tracks back to those with highly assumed authorities
amidst the group of avid anti-socials
vividly varied in opinions
from a sword to a pin
essentially assembled to speak against the ancient ones
a neoteric synchronization
scaling screaming lexemes
the scathed silk screeches
soaked in acid  
flamed till the ashes can be smelled
but never seen
seemingly insignificant statements
covert and pristine

two words are enough to make you put it in reserve
go back to my page cause you love it
and i saw you through the window
but you never came through you dont love it

little rich boys follow orders
attend prep school, learn a dead language
put on your suit and tie young man, tuck your shirt tails in
wash your hands, throw your opinions in the bin
little rich boys follow orders
they do what daddy says

then there was richard cory
eighteen years old and handsome as could be
the one who preferred his own company at socials
his time spent fending off vampiresses
and writing poetry on cocktail napkins

"father," he said, proud and puffing out his chest
"i wrote my own book of poetry, and i think it's the best
i know that the bank is waiting for me
but in my heart i'm a poet, oh can't you see?
i want to be a poet, father, oh please just let me be a poet."

little rich boys do not disobey orders
and from the time he could comprehend
richard cory knew that being a banker was at his road's end
but if richard cory couldn't write poetry
he knew his heart would never mend

father's fat face flooded deep crimson
"listen, boy: you are my only son
and you shall be a banker when the deed is done
just like your grandfather, me, and his father before
you have not lived unless your life is a bore
i will not have a dreamer for a son
head in the sky as the world passes him by
while my business is fated to slowly die
no, if a poet my son chooses to be
then no questions asked, i will put you in the army."

that could never be
fainted-hearted fair skinned richard cory
would not last a day in the army
surely he was doomed to receive a bullet in the head

into his lungs he took a shaky breath
paler than pale, his lips formed a false smile
with a nod, he returned to his room
his words, his poetry-
it was everything, they were everything
without it he was to be another rich boy
following father's orders and saying, "yes sir"
who would grow to be a rich old man with no hair
who would always wonder what he might have done there

one thing was for sure:
if richard cory wasn't able to write poetry
his heart would never mend
this was the end

shaking hands, tears in his eyes
when he was a little boy he said he would not tell lies
a metal barrel in his perfect mouth, so foreign and cold-
father, this is what you asked for-
fingers fumbled with the release-
oh lord, eighteen years young and soon to be dead-
it was no secret to the people living in the town
when richard cory put a bullet in his head

Why would I do this
What was in my head
My charmed life of bliss
Perhaps irreparably dead?

Yes I'm a fighter
A grifter of old,
I deserve a fate brighter
But on this I've been rolled.

Politics such a foul game
They claim I'm the one crooked,
But these hacks put me to shame
With actions deceitful and wicked.

Still you know what they say
When you're in the arena riding that bull,
Hold on tight and don't sway
The harder it bucks the stronger you pull.

Melania's not happy,
The kids out of sight,
While I may sometimes get snappy
It’s when I’m alone in the dead of the night.

Truth socials' my outlet
Where I vent and I rage
An invaluable asset
With my fans to engage.

For despite all my troubles
I'm still leading the pack
Supporting my struggles
They all have my back.

Biden is scheming
When the guy remembers at all,
In most polls I am far leading
Now he's praying I'll fall.

The media is gloating
With me as their lead,
In money they're floating
When Trump is their creed.

So maybe it's worth it
This journey of pain,
The path to outwit
And put these connivers to shame.

With me as your President
The US will be great
My abilities so undeniably evident
I’m clearly your best Head of State.

The south was dark and dangerous in. 1954
The **** called in the darkness
as fear hung from the night like spiders webs.

In the woodland by kitty Gains farm
alongside the perfume of corn and wheat
and the staccato chirping of hot august cicadas
stood the hemlock tree scared and black at its base
where its bark would never refresh its color
the hanging tree became the burning tree.

Molly Evans and her husband Abel arrived first.
The ten year old Chevy truck
pulled into the clearing
she held a basket
covered by a clean laundered tea towel.

Abel spread the old wool blanket
as she served his dinner fried chicken and corn.
With two cups of homemade lemonade.
The sun was low and the sky had a fire in it
as if by duty the mosquitos started to bite.

Abel slapped his arm
leaving a crushed insect and a patch of blood.
****** hitch he shouted
as Molly chastised him
language she churns God is listening.

Soon the field was full of vehicles a caddy a ford woody
trucks cars as big as football fields
nothing newer than 8 years old.
Men were drinking beer
ladies chatted of knitting and quilting
and harvest dancing socials.

It was then that jubels old beat up truck arrived.
In the back a ******* man
his hands tied behind his back
kneeling in the truck bed.
one eye closed and bruised
his face beaten ******.

The crowd fell to silence
yet an excitement filled the air it was palatable.
You could taste the bloodlust
as good as the fried chicken.

the ******* man had arms with muscles
. Like a football
he could carry huge sacks of produce all day never tiring.
But no more they would show
what happens to uppity blacks
that lust after white women.

He was accused by Lilly Taylor
of trying to **** her.
it was untrue he spurned her advances
he was married to Lisa his wife
and never ever did anything to her.
It was well known Lilly's husband
Seth drank moonshine until he could not walk
never mind fill his husbandry duties at home.

But lily was white and he was black in 1954
They watched as the truck parked
under the tall stout branches of the hemlock.
The rope hung down
and was measured his toes would tantalizingly
touch the ground as he choked on the noose.
it would keep him alive for minutes

****** don't get mercy here
they would know what to expect in this county.
The man who put the noose
Over his head was Marty Shue
the local bar owner
and his two assistants
were the the barber and the feed company owner.

Even the pillow cases they wore over their heads
with eye holes burned in them
could not hide their identities.
The barber poured a can of gasoline
over the black man
he begged don't burn my oh god no.

He had given up the hope of life
he was just  terrified of being burnt.
The begging went unheard
as the truck moved away slowly
the man fell from its bed
and dangled in the air
his toes dancing on the floor
gasping and choking for five minute.

then using his lighter
the feed company owner
Lit the black man.
He screeched an unholy sound
as the flames burnt him to death.

Across the hill in the shanty town
where the blacks lived.
the old lady looked at the lighted sky
in the trees

in her eyes a small boy
could see the flaming man
hanging burning dying.

Its your daddy son
he's at peace now let him be.
But the flames burned a memory
in his eyes.
and his mouth was dry tasting of death
and a new taste
that he had never felt before revenge.

1968
The boy was 24
a big man now
his arms strong muscular he stood 6ft 5
And 220 pounds

next to him in the old car
sat another black man slight and almost pretty
he has gay written all over him.
His relationship with Virgil was unknown.
just they were close
they were friends.

They arrived at Marty's bar
in the late afternoon
it was still a filthy relic of the postwar south.
The no ******* served sign
still hung faded and in defiance
to the new laws.

The light colored slight man
rattled the sticking door of the bar.
The three men were watching a wrestling match
on a beat up tv
Drinking beer.

He said to Marty I would like a beer please
You don't Get one in here boy
there's a black bar down the road a ways.
But I want one here he saId softly

Marty short of his usual millimeter of patience
picked up his huge louisville slugger bat
and said when I say go boy you ******* well go.
Hear me.

The feed store owner had a gun
hidden in his coat
the barber a long hunting knife in his belt.
The bat raised above his head
as Marty lurched forward

he tried to stop when he saw the glock
in the black man's hand.
it basted his kneecaps to pieces.
as Marty screeched as he hit the floor.

The feed company owner took the chance
to pull out his weapon a 45
he had had since a boy.
It never reached waist high
as the bullets blow his manhood away
and he cradled writhing on the floor

the barber tried to run for the door
but bullets blasted his feet
as the foot bones crumbled

Virgill came in he had a can of gasoline
drenching the men with it
they screamed don't burn us
why you doin this to us we are good men.

Do you remember August 28 1954
They went quiet
The ****** you hung and burned

Yes I am sorry Marty wept
I was young and stupid.

It was my daddy
said Virgil softly I see him every day.
He talked of the thin membrane that.
Separated the living and the dead

of the places where it was so thin
you could hear the demands of the dead
for forgiveness and love
and the loudest of all for justice.

I hear my daddy in my sleep
in my dreams in my soul.
The gas can was empty.

As he grew a cigarette on Marty
his body ablaze in the whoosh of the fire
then the other two .
The place was engulfed in screams and flames.

They drove slowly
within all speed limits
passing the state lines one by one.

They never found out
who murdered three men in Marty's bar.
They had no underworld connections
and all three were fine upstanding
members of the local church
and well respected
members of the community.
it was a mystery.

The end

i poet
writes about suicides
impulse cutting
you get misunderstand

you need polarized
we am writes about depression
you so emo

me so emo
need u to reads
more socials justice
more racistism

you were rights
for me to reading
american poetries

because read a poetry
spewed out by
bot software

The Pursuit

They met at at a ball and they danced through the night
The dashing young count and the lady in black
The music, attention, they soared as in flight
From that moment in time, there was no turning back
But back she did travel to husband and son
She tried quell the music that played through her mind
When she danced in a dream that could not be undone
She tried but the music could not be confined
And she saw that her cold life with husband was wasted
She tried do her duties, her life was her son
When her heart felt the stirrings of passion untasted
There was no going back, a great love had begun
He pursued her, oh how he pursued her
Attentive, his eyes burned with interest that thrilled
From city to city, he chased, would not lose her
His desire fanned the flames of a love unfulfilled
He made her feel beautiful, shine in his presence
Name a young woman who’d not feel that thrill
The dashing young count with a gaze so intense
Then he stopped his pursuit, going in for the ****.
She had tried to tell him to leave her life be
Of her husband in politics, duties were bound
But he knew her heart fluttered when she gave her plea
He saw in her eyes the great love they had found
So He failed show his face, several weeks with no show
Not there at the socials, the opera, no news
And oh how she missed him wherever she’d go
Full on down to nothing, but this was his ruse
Then he sent her a letter to come to his room
It was now all or nothing, come or be done
This was the moment that led to her doom
But for passion she had to now shine in the sun
So she threw off conventions to feel passion’s kiss
And they burned in the flames of a mutual desire
When every last fibre of being needed this
When duty and honour were burned in the fire.

31.12.18 JG

You know the morning comes
with the ridged mirror thumbprint
post-shower, a buffoon on the news
with his breakfast’s semi-skimmed
still lingering on his lip.          Oh! There’s a wedding dress,
white mascarpone tones put the nation
in a hellish spin… They’re miming
about this online, believe it,
their history teachers know it
and they shoot their cars up with paracetamol;
doctors say it’s the best way
to keep the numbers
down to single digits.

Girl boy something other, you’d better
check those socials because
a no-faced stranger may incorrectly spell
mascarpone, how ***!! stop it you look,
not the waxy sheen of your blemished
history, and the rain, those scrawny
black instruments are done for,
we shimmy in semi-skimmed now
because the movies said so
and you must believe every word,
each glitzy syllable is like
a paracetamol shot,
you’re missing out, you’ll forget
so I’ll say it again, not really
‘cause you’re reading, you’re missing

breakfast’s ready.

i guess when i check socials it feels like i need someone to tell me im doing something right, well, correct, even if it comes in the form of a like, share, comment. what im really craving is someone to give me real advice, real compliments, real talks. its easy to cover one up with the other, but it is not easy to confuse. i know i can see the difference clearly.

I’m the loneliness minister
What a job
Trying to bring joy
Where it has dissolved
It’s a real endeavor
Of which many do make fun
But it’s serious my mission
To help the lonely one
For there are so many
Shut off by themselves
I must make them smile
Into their misery I delve
From creating socials
Where the lonely can meet
To educational suggestions
Of how to beat
The vicissitudes of being down
Of not giving up
As the czar of anti-all-alone
I shall be on top of the populace
While trying not to complain
That my position is nearly impossible
It’s a long, long train

My big brother supports everything I do. I have always looked up to him. My big sister would boss me around and try to mother me in a way. As you can see there is a difference between my older siblings. My big sister agreed with my mom on everything they wanted for my path, never let me put word in on my own future. My dad and big brother loved everything about who I was becoming. My little sister looked up to me and she still does. Growing up was difficult for me. I chose not to listen to my mom's patronizing lectures and my big sister's ever growing grip on my socials. I hung out with my dad and big brother a lot. Now that we we are all adults, my little sister understands my rebellious nature. My big brother still checks up on me and supports my creative lifestyle. My big sister still thinks she can control me.
Here is How I Evolve, if anyone thinks they can control me I throw red herrings everywhere I can.
Here is How I Evolve, if anyone support me I will show you an unconditional love like none other.

I'm still wearing my mourning like a second skin
I want to rip it off and jump back in
and feel the safeness of my walls ridding me of my sin
of ever stepping outside of my walls to begin with...
Because it's been 10 years since I've have a heart ache in this way
it's been 10 years since I've let someone back in my heart this way...
Posting on socials about how I'm so in love
and how deep down I was so afraid of it blowing up
back in my face like it always does
whenever I show the world and let myself fall in love...
and it's shouldn't feel so embarrassing
but I'm allowing myself to feel everything
and right now that's part of it
I showed my heart and got it ****** with
This is one of the longer winters I have felt
I am ready for spring, I need it to melt
take your name with it
distorted on concrete like an oil slick