What should I write about?
Please make this and every decision like it
A detailed blueprint laid out
Against a world that is imagined
Please tell me how to write these lines…
Where are the breaks?
The stanzas are incomplete
My pen is running out of ink
I’m just filling in the blanks
The past was the first draft
The present is exactly that
Imagine the future
Don’t let me become this
I’m proud of you
Everything you’re doing, everything you are
Losing track of myself
You see what happens when I’m given control
No longer, “what should I write?”
Rather
What can I do…
Seeing the world from behind my eyes
Imagining the path before me
Laid out
Brick by brick
I may burn out
I may fade away
I refuse to not live.
For now the days are peeling off the calendar.

The wind howls
calling out to the
crumbling buildings
and the tenants that reside inside.
Slapping at the once ruby red bricks,
now a sad brown.
Time has taken its toll,
with no mercy.
No mercy for anyone.
The tenants are scared,
they cower in the center of the room.
What can be done?
The lion passes over the roof.
It crumbles.
Boards
snapped.
Screams
heard.

The sky has darkened,
filled with clouds
a violent, jagged
black. Night has
shifted.
Thundering,
shattering across
the vast horizon.

St. Michael,
the Archangel.
Defend us in
battle.

The dream has given
way to nightmares.
Day retreats
to night.

This battle is
just another
variation of my own
jaded
reality.

I’m having a
conflict of interest.
Who will make it
out alive?

Be our protection
against the wickedness
and
snares of the Devil.

I need it now.

No shield to protect.

Dreams burned
white hot into
the back of accepting
consciousness.
Scarred from memories.

Unforgiving supernatural
spirits working
behind
the veil of what is
and what is to be.

May God rebuke him,
We humble pray.
And do thou,
O Prince of the Heavenly host,
by the power of
God.

These premonitions are growing
in the shadows of self-doubt.
Breeding self-destruction.
I must remember
better times.

If it is to be than
what can be done.
Predetermined outcomes
wait at the tipping
point between
this world
and
the gates of Hell.

Fire whipping through air
sapping life from all forms.
Red glow blinding.
Suffering ,
with a fleeting hope.

I must not forget
what past has presented.
What future holds…

Only when it is accepted that
the calloused hands of
Fate
hold the fragile strings.

Can I truly be free…

From?

****** into Hell Satan and
all the evil spirits.

Oh,
the ending is coming.

If I could only
wake up from this
haunting.
Eyes closed,
listening
to the music of life.
Watching bright light
overcome the
coal black distress.

Who prowl about
the World
seeking the ruin
of souls.

I can make it.
The time to be idle
has passed!
This battle will
turn into
all out
war.
When all one must do
is be the best person
they can be.

I can
And will.

I must.

Amen.

Broken glass falling on the altar,
trees sprouting through the walls.
The priest has long left.
This congregation
scattered to the wind.
Once a proud building,
a place of faith.
Saints and sinner coming together.
Now welcomes,
feral cats and one night sleepers.
Lying awake on
torn down pews,
staring up at tarnished murals.
Lord,
watch over us,
if just for tonight.
Jesus was brought precious metals.
The copper is stolen from the AC unit.
The structure is boarded up.
Shut out.
Remembering what it used to be,
trying to forget its future.

I keep blinking,
flashing signs of God and man.
Hallelujah!
Gold crosses piercing into the thick, blue sky.
Follow the lines down to the bell tower,
on top of the rusted green roof.
Amen! I say Amen!

I'm anxious and
keep blinking.
Watching God through thick windows and
the sun is casting shadows.
Engulfing the bright red brick in doubt.

I keep blinking
and this is my only view.

A house for the faithful
closed,
boarded up from the elements
and the homeless.
The day of reckoning is upon it.

My eyes blink faster.
What have I done?
Wishing I could see the sky again.
Choirs of angels replaced by
the pigeons roosting on the falling gutter
of this fallen congregation.

Struggling with the faith
I have forgotten.

If life flashed before your eyes,
I'd better keep blinking.

The Lord's home is smothered by Black Locust.
Is this the new normal?
Doubting faith,
accepting that it's not just a building.
It's all around.

I keep blinking,
snapshots of forgotten faith.
Rain begins to fall on the Holy Site.
And I can't stop blinking.

I can only spin around in my chair
and forget.

The makeshift congregation packed into the church.
Hands clasped in broken hallelujahs.
Consecration of this community.
Guidelines for the faithful, faithful for tonight.
At least for now we can be one.
Trascendental divinity, like a silent wind flowing through
Public servants to ourselves.
We are the Church.
Sewn in the fields of the faithful.
Strewn through life like an empty chalice.
Filled with Merlot.
Hear us Father for we have sinned.
Glory to you.
Buffet Catholics asking for salvation.
Forgiveness sandwiched between the bread and pasta salad.
Repentant.
Offering up prayers for the ******.
Quick to judgment.
With the ferocity of Charlemagne.
Partial acceptance into our open hands,
You made a valiant effort.
Sign of the cross with water blessed.
Genuflect.
Kneeling on the pews, praying for peace.
External.
Internal.
Oh! My children! God will have mercy.
Part of the flock for once
Maybe twice
A year.
Not even staying for the full length.
The faint smell of frankincense.
We offer you this gift.
Ceremonies steeped in tradition.
Rosebeads hung from the wrist of regulars.
This mass is being said in memory of…
We offer up these prayers for…
The meek will inherit the Earth.
If we leave anything.
Cynics questioning.
We’ve found hope in a paperback on a bookshelf.
Who is our shepherd?

The fire rages
throwing shadows across
the trash.
Pepsi, Coke, Malboro
Cowboy Killers.
Lightning strikes the midnight black pavement.
Please Lord,
keep us safe.
Is this how the world ends?
A puff of smoke
tainted with a subtle hint of
Budweiser.
Oh, the humanity!

The wound has grown too large.
A bullet whispering through the air,
landing in a young mans chest.
The world ends
surrounded in yellow caution tape.
Police Line:
Do Not Cross.

Here the guardians sit
on the worlds edge,
looking over at the chaos,
coated in yellow gold and
thick black smog.
Choking on past sins,
the curtain falls on this
vaudeville show.

The world doesn't end in fire
or ice,
but both.

Circle Circle
Dot Dot
This dream of mine has been shot.
This nursery rhyme is no longer
a good time.
The lights are dimming.
The sexes are mixing,
exposed to the epidemic.
Everything is becoming a work of
spin art.
No medicine can provide a vaccine
for this lifestyle.
Circle Circle.
Dot Dot.
Endless cycles of not.

The clock rocks
tick tock
all the way to paradise.
While you look,
at old pictures of
situations you can no longer
remember.
In a flash they are
gone.
Long and
short hands
motioning that
your life is draining.
And the blackbird sings,
but only for a moment.
Knocking over the hourglass,
shattered time.
Oh, the
humanity.
Ring the gong,
sending shockwaves through
the world.
The global population's ear's
perk up,
listening,
waiting.
For the catastrophe at hand
to begin.
Monuments shatter and crumble,
the mind begins to deteriorate.
And the clock,
ticks
on
and
on.

Spinning
until I get dizzy
around my cubicle.

What a view.

10% me
90% what I never thought I would be

"The current webpage is trying to open a site in
your trusted sites list."

I don't trust anyone.
So,
let's extend that pleasure to this site.

I blur all the gossip.
Catch a glimpse of the Spiderman Timmy found in the landfill.
After everytime I use it I squirt some hand sanitizer.

The wall to my right
now left
is full of
certificates,
showing how important I can be.

There goes my Sierra Club calendar.
My slice of the outside environment.
This month is a river bed,
frozen,
choked with multicolored leaves.
Smooth water pushing through
smooth rocks.
Reminding me
that I give a presentation two Wednesdays from now.

The one constant
is the over-abundance
of files...
All over.
Reminding me
that I had a deadline
and
that I shouldn't be writing poetry...

I think it's time for a walk.

Play your cards right
Put on a mask to hide
Stacked deck
I speak lies
Fluently addictive
I’m infected with the soul
***** tonk hip
Broken record stuck on repeat
Hit me.
21 bust
Dealer’s choice. Counting cards.
Gambling addiction
One last chance to win at this lifestyle.
House always wins.
All in.
Out of control.
Runnin the table for brief seconds.
It’s gone.
Laid down everything on black.
This is how I live.
Just an honest man in a gambling world.
Juggling priorities.
Impulsive. Instinctive.
Alive.
Pop the bottles,
Full throttle.
Pedal to the metal.
This ride doesn’t stop.
Commit to it.
Makin money, spending money.
Just hoping to break even.
Break the bank, crack the casino.
We learned on the streets.
How to play this game.
Betting on games we know we can’t win.
These lines will end you in bread lines.
Doing it on the soul purpose of chance.
Will you ever know this lifestyle?
Seemingly scheming.
Flipping cards to the end
Royal flush.
Trapped in casino bright lights.
Just trying to find out what its all about.
For better or worse, I’ve been changed.
Lets **** this world up,
Before it repays the favor.
You’ve gone past gone to far
In deep.
I see possibility in failure.
The best of both worlds.
Collision course.
Make a bet.
Throwin’ down the table.
Snakeeyes.

His hands had the strong odor of
advanced hand sanitizer.
To keep the germs away,
while having ***** thoughts.
99.99% effective.

Walking through the pages of an empty notebook,
the surprises are few and far between.
Listening to the honks on Market Street and
I remember when life was like back in 2009.

The room was spinning around and
liquor bottles hung from the ceiling.
The hideous growl of a thousand broken promises.
Chasing after a drunk ghost,
through a maze of street signs and snowflakes.

The night sky sends down shadow monsters,
destined to return your soul.
I refuse to accept that this is reality.
My creative spirit has fallen into discontent.
Oh Lord,
please save me from these bright lights.

I am going down 157.
Waiting for the clock to strike
any hour it pleases.
Listening to the broken trees whisper their anger.
Splintered from the weight of the crows,
they fall.
This will not end well.
The problem with every story is that there is a beginning and
an end.  

Forgive me Father for I have sinned,
my last confession was...
when the Crown Royal was still a peasant.
The victory seemed like a defeat and
the birds flew south for the winter.

Do not be afraid.

This story ends with structure, responsibility, and order.
The trees have regrown,
hiding my secrets.
My mind begins to wonder.
Everything begins to swerve.
Is this what happens
when good men do nothing?
Or when bad men fly?

Don't forget to laugh
when you fall down the stairs.

Don't forget to smile
during the car crash.

Don't forget to grin
as the sky falls.

Don't forget to cry
when the clown trips.

Don't forget to love.
Even when the stars are not aligned.

Forget everything.

Don't read this poem.
You're not going to like it.
You're going to aren't you?
No?
Well good for you.
This isn't going to be very worthwhile.
But if you insist...
I'll tell my story.
It's your funeral.
I let myself be led by my heart
and it got crushed.
It was like beating a dead horse
with a stick
then tossing it off a
twenty-five story building.
Look out below!
Splat, on the
ice black asphalt
run over by a taxi.
This unforgiving love of mine.
This poem is horrible.
All this vague talk of love.
If I was a poet
I'd quit.
No questions asked.
Turn in my resignation letter
to you all.
Thankfully,
I am not a poet.
OK.
Let's get back on track.
Get this going once
more.
Where were we?
You put yourself out
on the fake limb.
Only to cut it down
by your own hand.
Tumbling down
down
down
down
with baby and all.
Wait,
what the hell is a baby doing up
here?
This doesn't even make sense anymore.
I've gone from bad to
worse.
Luckily,
I'm content with that.
Content with the love I
have to make due.
No sappy sonnets.
Only me.
Trying to write a love poem.

The cracks in the sidewalk are forming a pattern.
Keeping away those foreign to this land.
If you don't belong here,
don't be long here.

It is funny how the snow falls
over the trash and bricks.
A blanket of white that hides the problems.
The deafening sound of sorrow.

A retirement home retired.
Covered in graffiti and ****.
This talking must stop.
The sky is growing darker and the nights
they are below freezing.

Driving down alleyways and watching the apocalypse prequel.
Slam!
The car stops, not wanting to move.
The reverse went out long ago.
Everything that had promise
is broken.
Shattered glass reflecting hope back into the sun.

Sitting in a bar.
A beer with perspiration.
Its raining outside.
Hear the shuffleboard shuffle.
Intoxicated poetics.
Sober state of mind.

Stools shrouded in mystery.
Double doors leading in.
Bartender’s creations. (chemical concoctions)
Saloon of slumlords and hipsters
Open mic night.
Hippie Howls.

Don’t worry we got this under control.
Malboro reds, cowboy killers.
Don’t spend you life wishing,
Spend it living.
Better yet, spend it drinking.
Liquid courage. (men becoming beasts)

Awkward rages.
The best is coming.
Shielding secret shame in this scene.
Hidden in a pint of pilsner.
Free thinkers in a haze of hops.
Lets get drunk.

Make shift graveyards on the walls.
Honoring the dead.
Rest in peace.
Nothing less, nothing more.

Old Heidelberg.
Before my time.

The stalls scrawled with graffiti.
For a good time call.
Scratched onto the stall.
“Spread love like butter on a hot bun”
Sherlock and Watson.
Bromance.
This is a bar of friends.

What is this bar?
Drunk off this atmosphere.
Window panes with neon signs.
Disillusioned.
Concealed.
Unfinished.
The moves fast and goes right by.
Springing forward without a shadow of a doubt.
Members of the Great Unwashed.
The signs of our time.
I think we’re going to split.

Can I get another drink?
One for the road.

Don’t cut me off quite yet.

I’ll tell you how this poem ends.
It’s with a hard knock and
a whole lot of painful questions.
Who? What? Where? When? Why?
But no how?

That’s a secret.

This poem ends with like taking advantage
of you,
then leaving while you’re still asleep.

It never really goes anywhere.
Sizzle Sizzle Pop Smack.
Just like that,
this poem flashes before your eyes.
Blaine would be proud.

I never read poems til the
bitter end.

No, I skip ahead,
even in my own poetry.
First sentence
to
the last word.

What does that say about me?
Like I said,
more questions.

Impulsive?
Maybe.

Let’s end it here.
Would that be the cowardly thing to do?
Or would it put this poem out of its misery?
It is starting to drag its feet.

I believe it is time.
Fingers crossed,
behind the back.

Click Click Bang Bang.

Don’t you hate it when poems drag on,
word after
word after
word.

Finished.

I’m sporadically pinging
bouncing off mental walls.
Take a deep breath
In and out.
Doesn’t help at all.
My mind is racing
100,000 miles a minute.
Looking at street lights
out library windows,
burning and bursting with
anxiety.
This structure is crumbling into
anarchy of the mind.
It’s about **** time.
My mind forgets
about reality
and remembers
the
worst
possible
scenarios.
The world stands still.
Figuratively,
of course the world is still spinning on its axis.
I can feel it in my bones.
Constantly in motion.
The law of conservation of energy states,
“That energy can be neither created nor destroyed.”
Therefore, it must change forms.
The mind is a powerful tool.
A powerful weapon
against oneself.
There is no way of stopping
what is to come.
The paths get wider and I stay the same.
It’s all in my head.
Nothing is changing.
Everything is the same.
In a world full of atoms
we are all in this
til the end.

Living in this
cold world.
Every detail is noticed.

The birds chirp
with a hum of
highway traffic.

They fly south
in search of
better opportunities.
Carpetbaggers.

The wind brings the
sweet smell of
civilization.
Breath in.
Breath out.

Favorite sun pokes out
from behind its shadowy veil
of sulfur spewing smokestacks.

Listening to the grass
move,
groaning to keep up
the world.
An environmental Atlas.

Maintenance men out
pulling
the weeds
silently screaming for help.

The leaves don't crunch,
they let out
an apathetic sigh.
They move on
to their next life.
They've fallen
down on their luck.

Listen to the sounds
of Mother
being pushed around.

In case of an emergency:
we will meet at the safe area,
we will trample those who are too slow,
push those who are weak,
and follow proper protocol.

Where is the safe area?

Use your imagination.

Can we use the elevators?

Only if you want to die.

This has been an informative meeting.
If you have any other questions,
don't ask me.

Even when you think that you are being watched,
through the roses and the
cotton flying around you.
Villains will always remember that you can fall.
It is the purpose of the world.
The Earth breathes and the butterfly moves it's wings,
just a little faster.
The moment will always come,
when the wings are shattered.
One final
darkest before the dawn.

Even when the final step seems impossible,
remember,
it is.

write a poem they say
it'll be fun they say
why don't they practice what they preach
and write this poem for me
I hate writing poems with meanings
they never come out
right
or is it left
behind
this can be summed up in a word
disappointing
I hate long poems

When he ran
the fire was close behind.
Black smoke billowing from the sky.
It wrapped him up in a cocoon of
depression.
Who watches him know?
He will never forgive you for what you have done.
Would you truly want forgiveness?

The sun sets over the buildings
and he can see.
Church steeples and pebbles rolling over the road.
He is a hawk,
if only for today.

Can you hear the horses?
Thumping through our night,
their day.
This is where the world was made.
Pushing down on the Earth.
The good Lord will forgive all.

He runs by billboards and broken windows.
Haunted by the future.
Giving it all up for a quick fix.
Don't worry.
He'll forgive you.

When he ran,
he tripped and bathed in fire.
Welcoming him home.

Paralyzed by fear I sit
in this damp and draft apartment.
The hard wood floors whip into
tidal waves of displeasure.
I study the dust
flying through vacant space and wonder
about thieves and paupers.
What happen to the shining chandelier?
Broken glass and there is light falling on my face.
The Jesters are dancing in the moonlight.
The curtain whips into a frenzy and
the music tells the story of my life.
A scream flies through the air and
lands on an empty chair.
Darkness for the sake of darkness.
When do demons get their rest?
I reach for the door and the **** melts
like chocolate in the summer sun.
A scream.
I turn around and the old man is back.
His crooked smile reminds me of peeling wallpaper.
A time long before now.
This moment is not the last, but not the first.
Life is but a middle ground.
All waves cease
and the ceiling fan paints a picture of defeat.
Why does beauty need a symbol?
All doors point to more doors that point to
more apartments.
Hallways filled with creatures and empty cans.
Do demons have demons?
I lay on the floor and
let it take me.

This is a poem.
This is not a poem.

Sitting on a couch
filled with flowers,
praying to the Almighty that
there is an Almighty.
I keep my faith close to my heart,
in more than one way.
I watch the light in the bedroom
paint the hardwood floors.
Dancing to the tune of the muted television.
The fan adds a refreshing sound to the day,
drowning out the car alarms.
I am contemplating my faith while watching
TLC's "Breaking the Faith".
I normally do not write about faith or religion.
Lord,
Please forgive me.

A bird in the hand used to be worth two in the bush,
however, with today’s current exchange rates
you’ll be lucky to get half.
And if the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree
we may never eat again.
But should it fall,
it’ll probably spoil the barrel.
We’ve stretched ourselves thin.
Living off of borrowed time.
The cat had to sell seven of his lives,
just to feed his family.
I’ve heard that the grass is always greener on
the other side
but,
all I can see is a strip mall being developed.
Gone are the days when a fool would part so easily with his money.
That fool lost it all in the stock market and bought a gun.
An empty purse frightens all.
Lucky for us, we pay with credit.
People can say all they want,
words will never hurt us.
However, if they use sticks and stones there may be a problem…
We don’t have good health insurance.
There is a fine line between hope and utter despair.
It is just the beginning.
What comes next
will have a profound impact
on everything in life.
The pieces of this puzzle
will fall into place.
That stars will fall into line.
The dawn will be reached through the darkest hour!
Rome was not built in a day.
Then again…
Rome was sacked…

Running through these dark halls,
being chased by bulls and
my own thoughts.
I'm more afraid of the bulls.
My thoughts are dull and focus on
rocket science and The Green Arrow.
That might be a lie.
I am no scientist.
The arrow flies through this thick air.
I am choking on the pollution of others.
Air so dense,
it makes the weeds ashamed.
They are pushed off of their pedestal.
What happens if I fall?
Left to die in this dark hall.
Crawling towards freedom,
while the hall runs away from my memories.
The door grows larger,
encompassing the wall.
The door handle is made of solid brass,
too heavy to turn.
A knocking fills the hall with thunderous applause.
Then,
all is white,
then black.
I can smell the subtle hint of perfume and
feel the wind on my face.
It's comforting to know
that this is how I will die.

Shattered glass turns into
blood red water pouring
out of *******.

Life begins to
forget about
reality.

It is only at the end of the day
that night begins
to feel anxious.

Forget about the wind
and focus on the
breeze.

Oh,
the world has only
just begun.

If you need someone to talk to,
I am not that person.
I am a liar.
I will let you fall through
space.
Colliding with ambiguous answers and
hidden agendas.
Secrets are my forte,
the tongue that becomes a serpent.
Hot fire,
blazing glory.  
I will tell the world that
we were both at fault.
You will be forgiven,
putting your faith in the wrong person.
Hands clasped in prayer,
waiting for the time to die.
Infinitely telling your secrets to the Almighty.
I am a liar.
Nothing will be forgiven.
Buried in a shallow grave,
underneath a false headstone.
Resting,
Waiting,
for my pardon.
Please,
do not give me a second glance.
You will turn me to salt.
Everyone gets hurt
when the square becomes a circle
Forget all memories of me.
Erase me from your world.
I will only tell you
what I believe.
Is that so wrong?
Why watch the world burn,
when you can start the fire?

The television says that there is, "no signal".
I will believe it this one time,
as I doze off off on the hardwood floor.
There is a bed in the next room,
through the French doors.
However,
I can see the picture of James Dean and Natalie Wood from here.
Both of them from good families...
Tonight, I'll be a rebel.
Listen to the upstairs neighbors dog
run around
for freedom.
If you put your ear to a seashell you can hear the ocean,
if you put your ear to the hardwood floor you can hear the shadows
gaining courage.
They're waiting for the right time.
I put a towel at the bottom of the door.
It keeps out the cold air and
let's the neighbors know I want nothing to do with them.
I am withdrawn.
Destined to live on this floor,
seeing all the spots I missed sweeping today.
Dreaming of locked doors and too-early mornings.
The fan spins
singing a song of praise.
Glory,
glory,
I am saved.

What is going on in that beautiful mind?
Are you thinking of me
or iced tea?

If you want to know about real sadness,
ask a clown.

I lean forward and
WHAM!
A poem.

I lean forward and
WHAM!
You listen.

I lean forward and
WHAM!
You stop listening.

I lean forward and
WHAM!
It fades to black.

I lean forward and
WHAM!
I don't know how to do this anymore.

I lean forward and
WHAM!
This stops making sense.

I lean forward and
WHAM!
This poem forgets it's path.

I lean forward and
WHAM!
Unfounded anxiety.

I lean forward and
catch myself.
For it is in darkness that
we truly appreciate the darkness.

I have so much to do,
but I wont do any of it.
I'll keep the words to myself.
Forgive all and
fade into nightmares.
Don't be afraid.
The end has ended.

There’s danger in the night.
I’ll leave the light on.
A stormy symphony.
I will write poetry that comes to me.
Slammed into my temples.
A dream with the same theme.
One I cannot escape.

There’s danger in your sight.
I’ll leave the light on.
I’ll marry for money,
not love.
Calming my anxiety.
Leaving this Earth alone.
Celestial bodies waltzing.
Whispering contradictions.
Imagination gone awry
Aimless argumentation.

There’s danger in disillusion.
I’ll leave the light on.
Candles burning brightly.
Illuminating.
You can’t have it all.
I’m just beginning.
I hope you like it.
My hidden legacy.

There’s danger in seclusion.
I’ll leave the light on.
Founding fathers laid these remains.
Karma of our ancestors.
Ancestors to a future generation.
A revolution against
The lack of revolution
against
the thought of revolting.
Isolation is a cheap trick.

And when they come
they will say
they’ll talk of me
and of this day.

This is just the beginning.

Our Father,
Who art in Heaven.
Hear me.

I’ll leave the light on.

I love poems with no titles.
So full of mystery and intrigue,
they're like Nosferatu walking up the stairs.
Shadows in a black and white movie.
I am lying.
Here is the truth about titles,
they're very important.
They lay the yellow brick road Dorothy.
How would you get to the Wicked Witches castle?
You wouldn't.
You can't even navigate a tornado.

I am waking up and
thinking about titles and poems.
Words on paper scare me,
what truths are seeping into this wide world.
I had a dream the other night.
I was walking through a crowd,
faces I have never met.
I was told once that if you do not know the faces in your dreams
they are the ghosts watching you.
It is comforting to know
that someone is watching over me.
Big brother is always watching.

This poem is a testament to my stupidity.
In this world full of words and swords,
choose the pen.
The sky is brighter when it is being shamed.
Try it.
The clouds are just moving through life,
hoping for rain.
They have something I need and
they won't give it up.
It must be taken by force.
The time has almost come.

I forgive myself all the time.
It helps me sleep at night.
Dreaming of titles and words,
forgetting that one day,
we will all fly.
The titles we work so *******,
spending countless hours fine tuning,
they will fade.
Then again,
we will never grow wings and this poem
will have a title.

No,
not like an egg.
Watch my eyes flash from
wall to wall.
Breathing heavy
because that always helps.
My life gets better but
my poems get darker,
filled with anger.
Is this how life is supposed to feel?
Regretting the life that
got me to this point?
Fractures forming.
Oh,
this isn't the end.
There are years left to this.
In five years,
these days will be
the good ole days.
and in ten...
Whisked away on
the edge of a cloud.
Wow,
that was deep.

St. Michael,
The Archangel.

What should I think?

Wake me from this haunting.

I have become
the monster.

Defend us in battle.
Be our protection
against ourselves.

This world will show
only what we need to see.

The Devil is
watching us
dance to the bottom
of the bottle.

Sinking

into disassembly
This is not my true face.
No one will ever see that
I prefer to keep it close.

Waltzing by myself…
The only dance I’m allowed.

St. Michael,
The Devil is seeking the
ruin of souls.

I’m anxious.

Drinking alone.
Just waiting for something to happen,
watching life spiral into
madness.

The universe is expanding
and I am staying the same.

What does this all mean?
The story is slowing down
and I need more time;
to fully understand
what the other side wants.

Bending to the will of others
Please help me now…

I am trying to be the
best I can be in this life.

Oh,
the ending is
coming far too soon.

Defend us.

I will become that
better person.
I know I can.

I must.

What happens now?

These dreams
are becoming far too
real.

It is far enough away to
not dream about it.
However,
I am locked in this box and
insanity is setting in.
Watching the days paint
tainted ideas all over my prison.
Hidden from humanity,
I can only hope for a dream.
It will never come back to me,
no matter how hard I try.

How may I help you sir?
I am working on my customer service.
This is my new home.
Surrounded by thoughts and hard steel.
Would you like a tour?
Do you really have to go?
Okay than.

I am like a bull in a china shop.
Crashing into the walls and causing destruction.
Laughing all the while.
No one deserves to see me.
In a pile of broken glass and shelving.
Red,
blue,
yellow,
hatred.

The box has a slit in it.
I watch a curtain,
floral print and torn,
flow outside a window.
The building is falling down.
A testament to this area.
It knows what freedom is.
If these red bricks could tell their tale.
It would put everyone to sleep.

I will sleep tonight in my box.
Wishing the world away,
hoping for the axis to re-direct.
Saving my screams for a different day.
What will tomorrow bring?
Hours,
minutes,
seconds.
A countdown to the...
Let's count backwards.

If I threw an apple into a well,
would it splash or float?
The apple will never forget.

I find myself
wanting to change,
everything.

I want to go
back and do it all over,
again.

Please,
just this once.
Don't listen to me.
I wouldn't change it.

It made me who I am
today.

I want to walk
over cobblestone roads.
Gaze over red clay tops
and
breathe foreign air.

Remember my
favorite wooden bench,
under the old tree,
dying.
Where I watch the water
speed by,
such is life.

Bolted firmly to the ground,
keeping me from...
Bridges in the foreground,
pale blue
summer sky.
Cloud creepying over
the city.
Whispering,
watching.

A work of art,
one of the finests I've ever seen.

A momentary vision
of something I did not
appreciate.

Next time...

I rubbed his foot.

The caramel corn has taken on a subtle hint of hand sanitizer.
It is enough to **** all the germs.
A kernel escapes and the search party is unsuccessful.

The tile in the bathroom reminds me of other jobs.
Janitorial work,
cleaning up after others.
The tiles in my store were larger and dirtier.

I can't think,
this headache is raging a war.
Aided by my cube neighbors fan.
I snore at night and dream of helicopters.

Things usually come back around to bite you,
like a snake
or NASCAR.
America,
the Land of the Free.

I have lied so much that
it comes out as the truth.

A rusty swing set sits in the backyard,
choked by weeds and broken furniture.
The overstuffed purple couch
has seen better days.
Tonight,
it will sleep alone.

When I am feeling down I count the ceiling tiles,
getting lost at fourteen.
Fifteen is a liar.

What would happen if the stars did re-align?
Just for one day,
the cost of beer wouldn't be so high.
Then again,
the liquor store on Jefferson sells Tallies for $1.19.
Let's not be greedy.
I will buy two of them to make sure that when I sleep tonight,
it is soundly.

The phone keeps ringing with complaints.
People are more interested in their neighbors
than the fire.

Forget about this poem.
It is better if you just skim this literary travesty.
There is no substance.

This new day is failing
and it will soon be cleansed.
Forgive me Father,
for I have sinned.
Please,
watch over those I care most about.

This is what I got.
A title that really means more
than all of these words.
Writing a poem is
like a breath of
cliche.
I have been working on
moer than I can handle.
It is causing me to misspell.

Sure,
I could sit down.
write
write
write
Why?

None of these poems will ever
change the world?
Maybe, they will change one person's world.
Maybe, they have changed my world.
I am different.
Before I had clockwork,
now I have this.

Is this a change?
Is this a poem?

Drowning in my pillow,
waking up
realizing that this
isn't me.
I am watching life
flash.
Days from sunrise to set
people,
places,
ideas...
Thinking of what should
have happened
but
what really occurred.
I keep re-reading this chapter,
like some emotional teenager.
The next chapter is
being drafted,
everyone has their pen.
They're scribbling.
What are they doing?
Should this be different?
Is it this hard to move on?
I am becoming restless,
tossing and turning.
Sun bursts through the curtains.
Slowly moving my eyes
to the music of
Mozart,
refocusing on the bottle of air-freshener.
Oh,
what another day.

Demons and Mirrors

I hope you will
remember me
for what you thought
I was,
not what I
really am. The
secrets I held
will stay with
me.
Please remember
that boy sitting
on a park bench in Prague,
wishing
he was back home.
Not the man
when he returned as.

I’m the man
with the demons
stuck behind the
mirrors.
Scratching for
the surface
of this
reality.

Oh,
if I could only
show the transformation
from
excited to
anxious.
No one will ever
be let into
what I
actually believe,
feel.
I must keep
this protection.
This is my kingdom.
Never let anyone
fully in,
It will drive them away.
Maybe,
that’s the best option.

Please remember me.


St. Michael,
the Archangel.
Defend us in battle.
Be our protector.

I’m the man
behind the mirror.

Please,
keep staring
at the broken reflection.

Just remember.

Please stop rhyming in poems.
Start using Kung Fu.
What is going on?
This isn't my universe.

The ice flies through
electric avenues,
colliding with demigods and demons.
If there was a way to stop this storm,
it is far too late.
Spinning out of control,
into a darker abyss.
The laughter of a thousand scorn women
drowns out the fury.
The Moon will collide with the Earth.
It is only a matter of time
until the hourglass burns,
finally fixing all the cracks.
Lightning will strike through the
eye of a needle.
Then,
all the World's secrets will be revealed.
Falling off its axis,
turning towards damnation.
There is finally rest for the wicked.
There is justice for the unjust.
Laughter will fill the Universe.
The greatest joke ever told
was existence.

Watching as the flagship spirals
out of control.
Sweet neon lights
sputtering supernova
lighting the path back home.

Where is home?

A sign of the times.

Men of the year
walking down cracked walks
sideways.
These imperfections.
Imagine the path
smooth as whiskey
and water.
The element of life.

Imagine the path cleared
by pseudo-wilderness.
Wouldn't it be lovely?
Only interrupted by
the cat-calls of
taxis, metro, trains flying overhead.

Which way is the right way?

Row houses rise on either side
a testament to the time
when this broken down
trains car of a town
was a Pullman City.

Degrading into bricks and mortar,
rusting to the point of
being obsolete.

For a good time
call me
old-fashioned.
This is my former glory,
made into a city.

It's time to decommission.

This is what every show becomes
when the lights fade
and the curtain falls.
When sunlight turns to shadow.

I expect less.

He said,
She said,
madness.
The cup is filled to the brim.
It is spreading,
not like a plague.
Please accept this illness as a sign of our good will.
Things will get darker before they
explode.
There is a reason for everything.
The plan has been laid out for
the world to mend.
He said that she said
pick the apple.
The voices become a roar,
echoing through the frontal lobe.
Where does the madness begin?
It begins with us.
It ends with us.
We are the complication.
We are the unbalanced equation.
He she,
she said,
madness.