this body of poetry lacking
drafted white, out of sight on this backing
and oh such a wallflower it has become
and it's author, a nut for the cracking

the content within, also slacking
each sentence seems more like attacking
defensive it's true, and she won't let it through
so the message is lost in the packing.

she knows this in spite of her yacking
to reach you requires skillful tacking
to find you or bust, she'll say what she must
with dis gust in da sails, words are smacking.

A ***** in her mind needs some tightening
'twas loosed by emotional lightning
as for what she won't say, her heart gives away
but it's lost in the frost of this whitening.

Words…… What are WORDS in the mouth of humanity?

What are Words but sophisticated toys for grown up boys that call themselves men.... let’s not pretend… …. we’ve made a ******* of the ideas born from earthly SYMBOLS….in the face of love or hate who can pull back the reigns of it’s inconsistent passion?….

But dare i not say that we even speak words at all but are only yacking the call of loud deafness…of madness… What are words anyway in the mouths of men? If we knew…. we wouldn’t be writing or speaking at all……..We’d all just be in constant Awe of Our Creator…….

Thousands of humans paint the empty air that
lives on the ***** surface of the subway floors

They wait impatiently
for a train to take them to their eventual destination
twiddling thumbs,
no hint of conversation

Mesmerized by hand devices
and every so often,
a book of pages

Careless children brag in their aura of innocence
creating circles of shimmies throughout strangers with
more laughter than the concern of danger

Polka dots dance with legs no longer than
half the height of the turnstile
filing memories while adults admire
and flash photos they’ll show forty years from now
yacking about young New York and the old times it holds