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Perhaps we take photographs
and selfies of ourselves
in the event that someone might care,
in the event that someone we haven’t spoken to
in a long, long while, might see us there,
and just for a second consider the thought:
that everything’s quite alright.
Or, perhaps we do these things
in order to remind ourselves we’re alright,
even when we’re anything but.
One commonality I’ve noticed
Is that, people love to tell others
Not to subscribe to another’s bullshit
But watch, and listen to their own.
Another commonality I’ve noticed
Is that, these same people
No matter how delusional
Will acquire followers like sheep to a Shepard.
And they do it warmly, and with a smile.
And they’ll agree with you entirely.
They’ll make you feel safe.
They’ll tell you what to see and how to see it,
Treating you like their own personal parlor trick.
Their greatest illusion will be their acceptance.
While the bullshit they feed
In return for a profit—they’ll make themselves
The prophet—which they need to feel sound.
One commonality I’ve noticed
Is that, people who can’t be alone
Will do everything it takes not to be alone
Even when that means taking you with them.
They will win your will, with or without your consent.
They will make it feel like your own choice
To gain your trust, and dissolve you of fear.
Though fear isn’t always a negative—
Often it’s a tell tale sign—so
These commonalties I’ve noticed
Are geared to my liking, but at least
I’ve got the peasants fortune to tell you
That, prophets for profit will always be cunning.
And though wolves wear many clothes,
So do Shepards.
It all just felt so dull sometimes
Uninspired and too common place
That I’d do anything it took
To convince them otherwise
Mixed up I believed fire could walk on water
Then became the fool to my own dirty tricks
Until she told me the eye of the sea
Could never be lost or found, but that
It was always there, brilliant and dazzling
And that, it was waiting inside of me
What is poetry, but
a language of the dead.
It’s an informal dance,
a shared cigarette.
Poetry is
but a one night stand.
It’s a wine ring left,
sheets, stained
between strangers.
Remember me tomorrow
For who I was today
And understand my sorrow
Was never yours to save —
For everyone has reasons
The grieving call them brave
Who fought too many seasons
To end up in this grave
Still don’t mistake this sorrow
I’ve borrowed mine today —
Yet listen for tomorrow
What those lost do not say.
I took her to this art event
She took me to her motel bed
Like puppetry two marionette
We tangled up our strings
Her eyes were wide like Eleanor
Rigby she was fiction for
The life I’d led a year before
I hadn’t slept a wink
It’s comical how looks predict
The ludicrous and obvious
By circumstance we came to this
Offering by the sea
Her hair jet black like ravens beak
The padding of her size 6 feet
Lenore her name I said quite meek
This time then nevermore
It’s lyrical how time can tell
Who’s heaven sent and living hell
An angel with a broken bell
Knows liberation’s free
Sometimes I think coincidence
Common sense and saying yes
Are infinite never in jest
Like cherry blossoms we
Sell ourselves a dollar short
Make amends and then spring forth
Pink petals fall on the seashore
There’s no telling what could be
An accident a sign from God
A work of faith handshake or nod
They’re simply an illusion on
The pleasure box we see
The message spoke ten times before
By Poe and his dear loved Lenore
Like love’s the end all message for
Both poetry and speech
So I took her to the airline that
Disagreed with both our backs
I mean this with no disrespect
It’s how some people meet
We never spoke another word
Jumped back into the universe
I came to grips was late for work
And landed on my feet
One day you will wake up
to find yourself very successful
or very much alone.
If you are lucky enough
you might even wake to both.
Whom ever is next to you on that day
try your best not to create
a fiction to deny your current state,
and choose wisely your diction
each time you fall back to sleep.
Do not make this common mistake,
going to sleep as means to dream.
Rather wake up knowing love and pain
can not survive without the other.
There
is a
brief
window
as a kid
where
they
don’t know
about
overtime
morning commute
time and a half
cut hours
nor should they,
because
they’re kids,
kids who need to let the adults speak
you tell them all the time
so
when
the kid’s
all grown up
and wants nothing to do with you
don’t forget
all
those
times
the kid
just wanted to play.
Words Of An Average White Male 