My poetry is nothing but half-sense
Incaffeinated run off sentences
The result of a rushing mind,
Drained from windful mornings in the surf,
The tide beating against my board and my body,
By the time you walk out the ocean
You're exhausted,
And your brain is too fried to think about work the next morning,
Or the guy who keeps leading you on,
Or going out to a party later that night,
It's all just pits and potholes,
Annoying little bumps in the road
As I drive home in my 4runner that's as old as me,
I rather stick with the board on the top of my tanning lotion combined with worn down leather car,
I rather feel the rythmous beat of the waves against my skin
Than a bunch of sweaty bodies who reak of alcohol,
So I'll stick with my run off sentences, my incaffeinated mind, and my board under me.

An aching song
replaces the windful soul
of branches clanking on
to rhythms growing old-
-
the residue
of explosive tunes
drowns out the view
of old- now new.
-
there’s so much red in the sunset
so much red in the onset
so much red in the eyelids
so many tears still falling,
there’s not much green in the audience,
much more green in faucet
hidden green in the closet
too many tears still falling.
-
white hills with wheels
made of steel and fear
look to **** and steal
while the white hills men cheer.
-
gold dripping water
from self righteous fathers
get stored far from the thirsty
so they can gain and barter.
-
there’s no way to heal everyone
unless we become many ones,
reaching out to hold the youth
from plummeting into a deadly sun.
there aren’t many ones,
yet far too many anyones-
ghosts too selfish to lift a finger
or gain souls to breathe a helpful song.
-
when will good will
and will power will
something more than death
over every hill?
when will good will
and will power will
something innocent
instead of thrilling kills?
when will good will
and will power will
something truly good
to be a hearty fill?
when will good will
and will power’s will
be enough to keep us pure
enough to love still?