The Goal

On a vacation from the norm,
the trip brings the memory
of a man just one year ago
with a dream set in a mind so vividly.
It was fresh and it was fun,
it was both exciting and new
as it was an idea he never before thought
and one he could proudly ride through.
He wanted to do something organized
that he never before could do,
something for which the outline was laid
and the inspiration for which was true.
The idea was there
with the drive seemingly following
with only his lack of confidence
being the factor that was slowing.
Nevertheless the man went on,
pushing forward with that unobtainable
in a time no completion seemed imminent
let alone even possible.
Fast forward to today
in the present time and circumstances
and the tables have mightily turned,
an outcome which, from the beginning, had slim chances,
but now all is nearly done
with hopes and dreams both reached and exceeded
with a long, daunting task of a goal
now the one that is so proudly completed.

Our Age of Pluralism

It doesn't matter.
They're all the same.
There's none at fault,
no one to blame.
None are wrong
as we're all right,
this their battle cry
in this, eternity's fight.
The lies so nice,
pushing acceptance
for all to be
welcome, even those restless.
It's good to feel
they can make all
feel so good
about their collective fall.
The peace does last
as long as we agree
until oppositions arise
and enter different pleas.
Then the truth comes,
the inner becoming outer
with "accepting" one's screams
of intolerance becoming louder.
The fear mongering flows
from the mouths of liars,
condemning the preaching
and damning the fires.
Eyes get wide
as pupils become red
with their pushed peace
replaced with war instead.
The thought some people
would tell others they're wrong
is unfathomable to the arrogant
who claim the odds too long
but in this age or pluralism
where the beggars are choosers
there have to be
both winners and losers
and the ones to reject
the truths the hateful condemn
are soon to find the falling
in these black hearts of men
as that claimed to be
a scare tactic of the fear-mongering pious
is the one ultimate truth
that will rightfully divide all of us.

The Blood Pool

The beat that comes,
the beat that rules,
it overcomes
in the blood pool.
It pulls me down
as it tears it out
to bring the pain
it brings about.
The stress here
overwhelming and so
powerful in
its come and go,
the pressure rises
and boils over
to burn the hot
and cold shoulders.
The breaking here,
the bond forgotten
as falling down
all good made rotten.

No Model

No shadow to be in,
no lead to follow,
no mentor to advise,
no fill for the hollow,
no voice of reason,
no given advice,
no one to warn of
the upcoming surprise.

The little girl so sweet
may soon turn to bitter,
the child with no food
to eat with her dinner.
Her mother she loves,
the one who ignores,
yells to be quiet
as she slams the door.
A phone glued to an ear,
a sad excuse for
the matriarch she supposedly
could be, and more.
No model to show
how to live or love
and yet a small child
is asked to rise above
yet with the shackles
and the weights pulling down
there is no escaping
the despicability that surrounds.

Another Fallen

Another fallen,
another corrupted,
the world's perversion
again erupted,
the innocent down,
the ears to bleed
with a mouth to follow,
no good left to speak,
a tongue to once
lift up and encourage
now falls into dirt,
the filth in an overage.
The mind was filled
with only purity
until the outside world
sucked dry, drained empty.
The words once positive
now turned to poison
are on the verge
of causing complete ruin
as one cancer spreads
itself to another
until the bodies dead
can only topple over each other.

The Constant Letdown

There for me,
but not I for them,
offering assistance
only to receive none.
Blessing me with
their faithfulness
but receiving an empty
feeling of hopelessness.
They come back
to give even more
as they are left
at the foot of the door.
The caring for
a soul that's selfish
only to receive another
wound in need of a stitch.
They deserve something else
other than what's given,
yet they receive it
and count it forgiven.
Never to turn a back
or so much as a cheek
they take it all in stride
and take it most meek.
Victims of the constant letdown,
they get up again
and accept every grain
of imperfection that I am
only to accept me back
with all of my flaws,
the forever friend dedicated for eternity,
to give me their all.

The Uncoil

I'm tangled up
in the weeds and the shrubbery
with the situation getting
more sticky and rubbery.
I'm bouncing back and forth
from faith to doubt
pretending at times
that You have no clout.
My soul is wrapped around itself
confused by its own actions
and by its friend, the heart,
whose hopes mismatch its transactions.
My insides are aflame
with an inner battle that ensues
and a war that, against many wishes,
knows nothing but how to continue.
The screams are heard on both sides
but there is only one side that can be seen
as the one that will win the struggle
but only one through which hope may gleam.
The soul's struggle may go on indefinitely,
but before it's done, it must uncoil,
at the end of which I will discover
whether the evil will thrive or be foiled.

The Pretender

Don't preach originality,
you posing carbon copy.
Don't lecture for freedom
when you're entrapped in slavery.
Don't say you've got it all
from within your own soul
when every piece is copied
that can be found in the whole.
Don't pretend you're the first
when you're only the one
who has taken the worst
from each before and together have woven.
Don't lay on the fog
in hopes to distort the truth
that you are not special
but only another lie uncouth.
And don't guilt those doing it right
to convince them you have the answers
for your lies and life
have infected enough with their cancers.

That Feeling Inside

That feeling inside,
deep in the pit,
the one to make me nauseous,
that makes me physically sick,
the brush-by move,
the perversion of circumstance,
the cowardly protection
of the self-destructive romance,
the wooing on an inner
illness to come outward
to further perpetuate
the attention-screaming coward,
the tumor grows further,
the cancer spreading quicker
with a shield to protect it
that gets continually thicker.
The death sentence calls,
the time for execution now,
never knowing what hit me,
the death toll clear and loud.

Fade into Obscurity

Make the bad fade into obscurity
through shear willpower,
second-by-second,
hour-by-hour;
with grinding teeth
and gripping nails
that shriek on stone,
that make chalkboards pale;
forcing it to happen,
for the mountain to push back
with every ounce of muscle
and strength not to lack;
crushing the head
of the serpent that hisses
while making the lone protagonist,
survivor to be granted wishes;
and all of it happening
under the same false guise
in the land of unobtainable,
the mind's dreamscape, the non-surprise.

Contusion Confusion

From where did this come,
this discolor, this bruise,
the one of which I have
no knowledge, I didn't choose?
From where did this tender
to the touch spot come,
this skin that's toughness
has been totally undone?
From where did the evidence
of a wound recently formed
have its genesis and exodus
onto a body where it's now adorned?
And when will it stop,
this pain brought on suddenly
in a sneak attack reminder
of a life gone through begrudgingly.

The Sesquipedalian's Commencing Finale

The answering of the query,
the hypothesizing to the faith,
the pontificating of the idea,
the world wondering to the eighth.
The pondering of the proposed,
the proposing of the new,
the renovating of the old,
the widening of the current blue.
The falling into the ashes,
the dismantling of the brilliant,
the armament for the unwilling,
the death-tilling for the resilient.
The resurgence for the winded,
the regurgitating from the mindless,
the accoutrements of the equipped,
the ticking towards the timeless.
The acumen of the ingenious minds,
the advantageous nature of the auspicious,
the indirectivity of the circumlocution,
the bellwether among the suspicious.
The conviviality among the anger,
the further concupiscent among the hopeless,
the cupidity of the foolish blind to the beyond,
the coruscant that will prove to be endless.
The equanimity so coveted to be possessed,
the ebullient radiating from the pure,
the excogitating of the wise,
the losing sight of the cynosure.
The gasconading of the soon passing,
the idisincroncies soon to disappear,
the osculators to not lose the inclinations,
the luminescence to surpass and pierce the fear.
The mangnanimous to prove it worthy,
the parsimonious no longer to be mocked,
the penultimate to become first,
the perfidiousness to cause the shock.
The perspicacious to proficuously see it all clearly,
the eternal remunerative even for the saxicolous,
the unencumbered's praise heavenward,
the unparagoned to end and introduce the usufruct in the introduction to the precocious.

Forest of Everyday

Back, back, back to the forth,
front and fronted to show worth,
words and lyrics blending into one,
swaying of hips to harmless fun,
picking, picking all of it up,
pouring, pouring all of the cup,
rhythms and beats set to hopes,
steps taken carelessly on slopes,
slobs stumble through the woods
meant to thwart bads and promote goods,
evil winds blow through the trees
but exit in time for good to feed,
the rest picks up from where started
as negativity leaves as it previously darted
and the forest of the everyday tone
is left peacefully to itself, sublimely alone.

Confused by the Rhyme

Lost in the moment,
confused by the rhyme,
pondering the statement
while losing track of thyme.
Trying to focus on
the sentences there,
the effort that's like trying
to cover cupboards so bear,
the brain slows down,
jumping around like a toad
as the mind takes off
down its own winding rowed.
The head conjurs up
ridiculousness as it's so proud
wishing the mouth would
say it all allowed,
but the only hope
for the idea's whole
to be heard is to
have it pour from a broken scull
yet that would only
solidify the hopeless feeling
felt within fate's
ultimate and imminent ceiling.

Crisp & Flat (Part III)

Crisp until it pops,
popping until it breaks,
breaking until it's flattened
into the thinnest of pancakes.
Bright as the sun
shining freely in the sky
until the clouds consume
as the beauty quickly dies.
Poignant as the prose
that changes lives instantly
until the grinder chews it
and spits the point out as empty.
Crispness in the air
floating in and out
until the flatness battles
to crush it without doubt,
but as the flat tries
its hardest and best
the crisp will not give up
lying and at rest.
The flat will fight
to infect and kill
leaving the only question to be
does the crisp possess the will?

Flat (Part II)

Flat as the tire
vandalized down,
as the once gelled hair
after a night on the town.
Flat as the soda
left out on the counter
for a long, useless night
that surely didn't matter.
Flat as the footed
full of inactivity,
full of inaction,
full of passivity.
Flat as the air
in the depressed's room
filled with the inevitability
that brings a full gloom
and a flattened soul
crushed by a flattening being
leaving a flattened hope
void of all meaning.

Crisp (Part I)

Crisp as the air
in summer's glee,
as the arm of the shirt,
as the shirt's sleeve.
Crisp as the bill
of the young man's hat,
as the bite of the flakes
in the young man's vat.
Crisp as the bill,
the other one found
in a wallet full
of giant green mounds.
Crisp as the wine
consumed with such vigor
to cap off a day
for the newly christened winner.

Angry in Tone

So angry in tone,
in action as well
with the fire and brimstone
and fury of hell,
the words spew forth
from a mouth of acid
bubbling over and out of,
destroying the flaccid.
He throws the bolts
and fires the clashes
until a body's burned
leaving a corpse's ashes.
If there is another,
a present agitator,
he will inform her
as her voice becomes fainter,
as he breaks down wills
and penetrates souls,
defeating the difficult,
the stubborn wholes
and leaving behind victims
who never saw it coming,
left without the former will,
left with only fear in running.

The Opinion Shopper

One word said
the shopper doesn't like
so the patron chooses
to take a hike.
She leaves the store
in search for another
with a staff that will,
for her, bend over.
She needs to find
that certain place
they won't disagree,
they won't get in her face.
She needs the ease,
she needs the free pass,
she needs a false sense
of security to last.
However her search for
this peace of mind
is becoming increasingly
harder to find
while the only truth
to come for her
is the one she's feared
and will forever.

One Last Dance

One last dance with her memory,
one last twirl to the song not played
with yet another tear to fall
another tear is shed in dismay.
The dance takes place in the shadows
of a regret to never be forgotten,
a whiff of the stench that permeates,
a memory of an opportunity spoiled and mistake rotten.
He moves his feet from side to side
in step with the song to remind.
He searches for a repentance unnecessary
and an illusive peace he can't find.
His arm reaches around the waist
to rest on the back of her ghost,
a hip he would give all the world to feel,
the soul he misses the absolute most.
The music goes as if in slow motion,
yet, like her life, quickly flies by
in the moment where two souls feel each other
to show one another both are still alive,
his feet take him in circles around
no longer shackled by embarrassment's chains
while the circle carries him away from the lot
and into the field, the vessel-filled plains.
The music finally manages to cease
as the moment in which he reveled is rendered dead
just in time to step at her once dancing feet
and to brush over, to say goodbye to her marble head.

Un-required, Unrequitted

Un-required,
unrequited,
uncalled for
towards a man unfitted,
unbelievable,
unfathomable,
un-repaid
from a man too flappable,
unequalled,
unmatched,
so perfect
without a scratch
and always that way
for a sinner like me
from a God holy and faithful
through our shared eternity.

Much Pardon

Pardon my French,
pardon my brevity,
pardon my lack
of ability for levity.
Pardon my planted
unpardoned feet
that need much pardoning
for the pardoning they defeat.
Pardon my words,
pardon my ignorance,
pardon my lack of interest
in your lack of approval for my boldness.
Pardon my offense,
pardon my speech,
pardon my counterparts,
your colleagues who love to leech.
And on my behalf,
pardon yourself,
the apparent judge of all mankind,
the eventual executioner to one's own self.

A Million

A million circumstances,
a million occurrences,
a million moments
making zero differences,
a million faces
in a million crowds
lost in a million
different hopeless shrouds,
a million specs,
a million particles,
a million indifferences
in a million articles,
the millions lost
go millions of miles
while the millions it costs
will feel it for quite a while
and the millions remaining
left over from the spree
will be the millions granted
their wish to be free.

Embrace It

Embrace the pain,
embrace the suffering,
embrace it all,
you little piece of nothing.
Embrace the misery,
embrace the tears,
embrace the hollowness
followed by the fears.
Embrace the emptiness,
embrace the sin,
embrace the agony
you put yourself in.
Embrace the hopelessness
you bring to the table
you once thought folklore,
you thought to be fable.
Embrace it all
since it's all you do
while sentencing your own soul to death
on this path you choose.

Silhouette

The glare from my glasses
stare back at me
with disappointment from
what only they can see.
A man in the shadows
pushing the pusher to light
while being too much of
a coward to fight,
the silhouette of
the potential that used to be
outlining a hollowness
that's worn so blatantly,
moments of bravery
sporadically come
only to be chased
back to where they came from.
The vicious cycle
repetitive to death
won't allow hope
to take its single breath
but instead stomps on
the throat of the weak
until the life is out
of the spirit too meek.

Dream in the White

Dreams in the white
of the little girl passed,
so short of years,
a life that didn't last,
dreams she lives
a longer life
that didn't end
under duress and strife,
dreams she made it
from a first date
to the day her eyes
first met her mate,
dreams she wore
the cap and gown
the day nothing
could bring her down
and days that
were past today,
the last she lived
on an earth she couldn't stay.

Pearly White

The beauty in the white,
the purity that lies within
that's there for me
time and time again,
the flash of the pearly,
the glimpse of the bright
that illuminates a day,
that gives the dark its light,
the encouragement that lifts,
the pick-up to a heart
that only ever needed
a second fresh start,
the perfection in a scene
that opens all doors
where happiness can live
and grow even more,
it's the pearly whites
that allow it all
to happen whenever
it's needed or called.

Hate Out the Love

Bruise to the beats,
beat 'til it's bruised,
scream 'til it bleeds,
bleed while it's used.
Hate out the love,
love to throw hate,
love to shatter glass
in love's defenseless face.
Let the neighbors know,
let the voices penetrate
the too often too thin
walls that can't hold the weight.
Let the pushing continue
until the walls fall
and the bodies crumble
underneath it all
as the ruins remain
over all else
proving previous self-denouncing claims
all to be false.

The Malignant Infection

Inventing the sickness
while convincing others
until they convince
one another,
they beliieve your fall
under the illness,
the guise under which
you couldn't be fulfilled less.
You stand in the corner
preaching your sadness,
a sick game in which you sickly
find superior gladness.
Soon enough they all
fawn over your soul,
you poor little thing,
you hideous little troll.
The game you play
is safe enough
until the fantasy becomes real
as it becomes too rough
and the last tear for you
is finally shed
only by your own eye
on your own deathbed.

Abuser of Help

The abuser of help,
the mocker of assistance,
the beggar of others
with the strongest persistence,
the laugher at good,
the worst of the worst,
always going before,
always putting self first,
the proverbial selfish,
the consomant one,
the possessor of laziness
who, with it, has fun,
the epitome of solitude
in an effort to drag,
the sad soul sees fit
to take it all and brag;
the prideful in foolishness
and joker in sense,
the one who has all
in all that's worth one pence.

The Place Where Made Whole

Pick me something pretty,
pick me something sweet,
something where satisfaction
and dreams can meet,
something where we
can peacefully keep,
where our legs and fatigue
can meet with sleep.

Play me something peaceful,
something just slow enough
to slow this racing pulse
in this race too rough,
something that can sooth
feet swollen and sore,
something that will mean
just a little bit more.

String up the songs
that settle it all,
the ones that capture
imagination with their call,
the ones that live
only that which we can't,
the ones to unite
our disjointed chant.

And allow it all
to flow from your hands,
to come from you fingers
according to your plans,
and allow it to take
these complacent souls
left here so placid
to a place where made whole.

Ultimate Fall

I'm disappointed.
I'm let down
with nothing seen
when I look around.
No one to pick
me off the ground,
only the echoing
of my body's hitting sound,
I can't seem to find
just what I need
to nourish these innards,
to successfully feed.
Needs not met,
wants not solved,
passions not quenched,
nothing resolved,
only a selfish being
remaining after all
and only tears to accompany
on the ultimate fall.

Guilty Air

It's all over,
it's everywhere,
the pain and suffering,
the guilty air,
the whiff of regret,
the stench of failure,
the sickening game
won by a sick player.

It's ending now
and just beginning,
the winner ending
without a winning,
the loser losing
for being there
and both screaming
how it isn't fair.

The reeking of it,
of the play chosen
leaves all paralyzed,
involuntarily frozen,
with no movements
able to be made
with the game already
done being played.

Remnants of,
proof remaining
of the sucking of life,
the complete draining
are all that's left,
all that's there
in a time and place
where someone should have cared.

Point Moot

Tongue out, eyebrows furrowed,
confusion rampant, tucked in her burrow...
Misunderstanding there, effort with,
attitude good, mind split...
Smile present, squint, too,
eyes questioning (those blues)...
Explanation forthcoming, needed quicker,
explanation missing, target thicker...
Point moot, all lost,
subject left, no cost.

Streets

Love, let the love
go with the drum beat,
take your head to bang above
and to move your feet
as your body will follow
and do what it does
to rise above the noise, to go
over the insufferable fuzz.
The voices in the back
that go and go and go,
that repeats on the track
that never gets slow,
the problems they face
may be the same as ours
but it's a different place
that seems awfully far
with the streets going loud
and the pain even louder,
with the violence proud
and only getting prouder,
they tell you to check
and to check it out
before you go down in the wreck
and are left to scream and shout.
The go-getter gets you
and leaves you for the fishes
no matter what you do
as you're left in the ditches,
the battle that surrounds
now is that which consumes
as death and blood abounds
with only the pain that blooms.

These Breaking Dawns

A day of doubt
followed by encouragement
to heal the wounds
and fill in the left dents,
the darkest days
need these breaking dawns
to silence the thunder
and calm the storms.
The amazement is palpable
of God's timing
to bring these lights
when the will is dying
but He never lets down
and is always present
even through the storms
we are convinced aren't meant.
The bringing of
the fruit for which
we tirelessly labor
is never the glitch
and always when
we need it most,
the blessing of
the Holy Ghost.

Answers They Don't Have

This is a poem from a couple months ago that I never posted...sorry for the delay but I hope you enjoy a blast from the past writing style/mind that I carried:


When ideas run rampant
without an outlet
why should I not
act upset?
I know there is
some reason or rhyme
but what if I don't
have the time
to take to figure
or take to discover
when it seems the process
is immediate for others?
I can't turn to them
for the answers
that they don't have
for this, my cancer.
I can't turn to those
who seem to luck out
and when they don't give
I scream and shout.
They don't have
what I'm looking for
or what I need them
to have in store.
There is only one
place it is found,
a place of wisdom
so profound,
but my stubbornness
is yet to be ready
for the approaching
of that place that's steady.
When my anger that
surpasses passes
maybe then can I
look through the glasses.
I hope it's soon
that this anguish of arrogance leaves
so I can once again
feel some kind of peace.

When Fear Collides with Fate

The moments multiple,
the paths as well,
so many ways
but only one to tell.
Not much to know
or exactly how to,
the game is played
while the feet are glued.
The pushing continues
both times, both ways
while the feet often
lead the mind astray,
the path is muddled
and the spirit condensed
in moments that escape
both knowledge and sense.
The seconds confuse
even the most focused
with the brain's random snap
and the following hocus pocus.
Then when fear collides
with the impending fate
there's no place to go
and nowhere to escape.
Instead the only move
that one could make
is the one it should have originally
before it made the mistake.

The Flawed Man

Walking along
according to the plan
drawn up by
the flawed man,
the outline written,
the ideas thought
with the present
fights being fought,
time to attack,
the move is made
with the game chosen
being played.
The years of practice
to prepare for now
are successful
and make you proud.
It all works
how it was drawn
until it's done
and reality hits you, pawn:
it was all wrong,
it was all a sham.
It was all a storm
that broke the dam.
This philosophy
taken in life
now pulls it
apart with this strife.
The part that
was supposed to float
now drowns
and strangles the throat
while the part
noticeably collapsing
threatens the life
now too quickly passing
only to allow you
enough time to realize
the self-afflicted self-destruction
is the prize.

Punk Rock Princess

Rockin' the heels
and rockin' the lips.
Rockin' the boots
with the rockin' hips.
Bangin' the eyes
and bangin' the head.
Bangin' the music
'til the music's dead.
A sweater to show
the straps she's proud of,
no shame in the style
she's never out of.
Long sleeves even
when it's in the 90s,
it's almost impossible
for a man to find these.
Black eyeliner
with the leather jacket
and the studded belt
on the ripped jeans to match it.
Maybe a vest
or maybe without,
maybe the peace
or maybe the shout.
Pointed shoes
'round rounded toes
belonging to a girl
with a name no one knows.
Pockets with hands
so often found in
but never another's,
always and only her own thins.
The killer blue eyes
that rise above
thought of war
or even love,
above the rest
who only covet what's missed,
she's the one
with the rubies to be kissed
but the illusive prize
will stay unowned,
this punk rock princess
only all to her own.

The Delicate Balance

Do your best here
and accumulate what you can
to make your family happy
and be your family's man,
but don't lose sight
of the future far from here
where He alleviates worries
and any and all fear.
Do your best here
to provide loved ones comfort,
to make those around you
feel free from the hurt,
but don't focus so much
on supplying contentment on earth
when the focus should be solely
on the post-worldly birth.
Remember the fact
that there is nothing wrong
with doing your best here
and doing it for a time so long,
but push for the finish line
in anticipation of the arrival
of the Savior back here
and your own to heaven that will fulfill.

The Tough Times

The hard thing, the right thing,
it all means the same thing,
the tough times, the rough times,
always the easiest to learn times,
the easy to sit, the easy to spit,
the easiest of moments to quit,
the moments we dare, no minutes to spare,
only the ones we must turn to the air.

Moving Away

The boxes packed,
the memories fresh
of days more profitable,
more favored and blessed.
Memories so vivid
of times so surreal,
of the boom experienced,
the boom they loved to feel.
The outlook was good,
a sunset on the horizon
that under it brought
the enemy that lied in.
The roads being constructed,
the buildings being erected,
the seismic shift to cause
the whole town to be affected,
the ones thought to be loyal
to the landmarked little store
began to disappear
more and more and more.
The road once crowded,
the one packed to the curb,
was now empty but for one or two,
those refused to be conquered,
but in the end of it
even the most loyal
could not save the good
that is to be eternally foiled.
With the nightmare come true
the business has moved away,
the same the store must do
on this dreaded fateful day.

Old Bunch Comb Road

The place where we went
to spend all our time,
where we lost our youth,
both yours and mine -
the place where we learned
how to live life,
a one free of worries,
ones free from strife -
the place where the dirt
was a warm, welcomed sight,
where the city's clutter
couldn't put up a fight -
the place full of freedom,
our home away from home,
void of voices voicing displeasure,
just a way of life, our own -
the place where the breeze blew,
where the leaves fell around,
where our hearts crashed into each other
and all guards and barriers fell down:
on Old Bunch Comb Road,
the place of youth and love
for that moment in time
that only our passion could rise above.

No Regard

No regards for others,
no regard for the Guide,
no regard for the Church
or even for Her Bride;
no care if it's lived
by a certain standard
but only to your own
delusional grandeur;
no worry for the future,
no mind paid to consequence
or to your troublesome acts
or, in turn, what they represent;
only regard for the self,
the only pleasure to find,
the only one you seek
for an illusive peace of mind;
but while you do it how you want
and do it every day
you will find hell to be the culmination
of you having it your way.

Fear and Fear

Lord, take it away,
the fear and the fear,
the unconscionable doubt
I scream in your ear.
Lord, shut my canals
off to the words
of hate and misconduct
to me others urge.
Lord, silence the critics
that speak only death
into my conscience
with every living breath.
and Lord, silence the critic
that now dwells in me
so that it may be silenced
as for eternity it shall be.

Spitfire

It's corny, contrived, insincere,
a lie, a pose, a fear.
It's made up, created, rehearsed
in perfect form, perfect prose and perfect verse.
It's preconceived, a ridiculous notion
ridiculed like a magic potion.
It's focused, to the point, concentrated
with a genesis born from, given to the hated.
It's spitfire, it's lava, an acid
for burning the faces and souls of the placid.
It's convincing, concealed, converting
while prying the pious into perverting.
It's immoral, powerful, and wicked
squeezing into the minds previously fitted
and it's winning, conquering, controlling
the hearts and minds and souls foiling

Tripping

Tripping out.
Tripping balls.
Moving back,
the moving walls.
The flames absent,
the ones not there
are bursting further
into the air.
The fire blows
and consumes
all that no
longer blooms
and goes out
in my mouth
while I try
to scream and shout.
The fire disappears
and goes away
in time for me
to go astray
but not before
it's gone without care,
the fire that
was never there.

In the Pile

In the pile,
under the stuff,
among the noise,
among the fluff,
covered by pests,
tackled by demands,
wrestled down
and lynched with reprimands.
Overwhelmed in full,
under siege by all,
given tasks impossible
to answer when called.
In the weeds,
the ones so high
one can't see to
look up to the sky
and all unto
one's own accord,
selfish acts now seen
impossible to afford.

Lost in the Mundane

Lost in the mundane
among the wasted,
the moments that fain
too often tasted.
The minutes subsiding
and fading into the back,
falling into the grey
where everything lacks.
The stormy skies
prior to the storms
that are recognized
far too closely to norm,
the weather present
that presents the rain
and presenting with it
the sudden pain,
it starts to pour
out on the soul
bringing with it more
to destroy the whole
and all because
of the passivity
and a laziness
to crush the weak.

The All

The suspicious,
the inconspicuous,
the delicious,
the fictitious,
the random,
the tandem,
the fandom,
the damned them,
the blessed,
the dressed,
the best,
the rest,
the tall,
the small,
the gall,
the call,
the failed,
the exhaled,
the paled,
the railed,
the come one,
the come all,
the rising up,
the ready to fall.

It's Poetry

It's not history.
It's not past.
It's not tired.
It's not gassed.
It's not old.
It's not tainted.
It's not fading.
It's not fainted.
It's not useless.
It's not non sequential.
It's not unimportant.
It's not inconsequential.
It's more than all.
It's words of fire.
It's passion outward.
It's burning desire.
It's a confession.
It's a venting.
It's a pouring.
It's much needed lamenting.
It's all needed.
It's all healthy
done by all
mentally wealthy.
It's poetry.
It's humanity at it's best.
It's the human psyche
put to the test.

The Lie

I don't know where this myth started.
I don't know where this falsity began.
I don't know when confusion and exaggeration
met and when they picked up and ran.
I don't know who spoke the words
that contradicted the truth in print
or who was foolish enough to assist,
unknowingly propelling the sin.
I don't know who pedaled the trick
that was so far from correct
or who, in the process of the sham,
they were trying to protect.
I don't know how long this facade
has been alive and well
but the gaining of steam
is about to be quelled
with the crashing and the burning
about to come to a head
when the lie, the falsity, the myth
finally ends up dead.

Let's Go Back

Let's go back,
let's go back to the place
where it was void
of the daily pointless race,
the place of peace,
the spot of tranquility
where all equated
in all of its equality,
the place of happiness,
the place of contentment
without the bickering
and blissfully void of the resentment.
Let's go back,
back to the moment we knew
the place that we were in
was the one thing that was good.
Let's remember what we felt
when we were there
without worries and frets,
without the slightest of care.
Let's remember
and let's go back
to the place of contentment
where there was nothing to lack.

The Storm

On and off again,
the rainstorm so intense,
the passion of her flood
so powerful and immense,
she cries for her suffering
to be shared by all
in the giant drops of agony
to connect in its fall.
The scattered storms
are never known for sure
when they will come
banging on the door
with howls and whistles of
the wind that occasionally accompanies
and basks in the same glory
of the same brutal furies.
When the storm disappears
the skies clear to beauty
like never before dreamed
yet with that feeling so quickly fleeting
to make way for the ultimate
storm that will be told of
as fable and myth for generations,
the storm that took and tore from bottom above.
She bears down without warning
and crashes, demolishes without hesitation,
no regret in her actions to the people,
no second chances given to the nation,
but rather her eternal wrath to be spread
to those she deems deserving
as she holds none of it back,
needing nothing left for reserving.
Instead she simply crushes
the ones below her reign
and leaves the corpses lay
in the ashes of their final felt pain.

Bitter World of Nothingness

I'm losing myself here
in the bitter world of nothingness
with only regret and mistakes
to show for my selfishness.
I turn to run from the trend
I have set to be the standard
only to brutally solidify
the truths set with mild manners.
A youth that has disappeared
and an innocence no more,
there is only lifelessness remaining
on this cold, hardwood floor.
Deep breaths help momentarily
to fill the dead soul with life
but the same breaths escape too quickly
to do the good that combats the strife.
The emptiness fills the room around
and throws my soul into the well
that is as close as I can handle
being to the pits of hell.
Understanding is escaping
even quicker now than before
with jokes made of men once
thought to be, by all, adored.
Lives torn down quicker than
the laughable meteoric rise,
the deaths now innumerable,
a cruel joke come as no surprise,
and the ending that was foreseen
but so foolishly prepared for by none
consumes me and all around
in a fitting finish required of more than some.

To the Others Who Create Shade for Me

The others who create shade for me,
the sacrificial beings,
the ones who work until hands bleed
to spare my comfort and feelings,
the ones who worked for years
to give me better than they had,
who worked the worst of the jobs
that most times drove them mad,
the ones who wore the bruises
their dedication earned them
to fight for the life I was gifted
and could never repay them for this gem,
the ones whose hands cannot
any longer bend fingers to grab
with strength the years have robbed
leaving them weak, nothing left of what they had,
the ones whose callous hands scream
for a respite from the torturous grind,
that prison that allows the opportunity
for freedom for my mind
and the freedom to embrace the realization
that if it weren't for their slaving, their wrought
none of this would have ever happened
with all of my dreams being for not.

The New Same

The signs put up
to convince others to your point
fall so quickly after
the gatherings disjoint.
The passion that overflew
for weeks at a time
disappears in seconds
as quiet as a mime.
The message to go through
meant to get across
is lost in the static
of the lines that cross
that now are cut
and done away with
without another sign from,
without even a blip.
Now that the booths close
and debates conclude
with a limiting of
the obnoxious and rude
a new day shines,
a new dawn to come
to bring evermore of
the same beating drum.

Fallen but Encouraged

We come together
almost every week
with nothing but honesty
in admission we speak.
Flaws falling out
in words and action,
souls ashamed,
hiding in contraction,
all the fallen
and sinful together
encouraging each other
with reminders of forever.
Bouts with sin
shared by all,
we pick up each other
and together we call
on our Savior's name
who will always listen,
who amidst the dirt
allows the promise to glisten.
He guides us on
the path that's right
and points us back
to each other's sides
as we come together
here yet again
as fallen but encouraged
women and men.

Depths of the Worst

Here we go again
from the depths of the worst,
from the mouths of deceivers
to the ears of the firsts.
Staring at further
down than thought possible,
a fate just a week past
thought to be implausible.
Lying on this back
fatigued from carrying the load,
shoving more down
this throat that's forced to choke.
Now there's no choice
but to stare up,
staring up at rock bottom,
sipping from this nearly empty cup.

Look

Look at the happy,
the ever-so wealthy,
the facade that's their lives
in a world so empty.

Look at the fools
who see the gold and drool,
who chase the dreams
of the overreaching, ill-tooled.

Look at the clowns,
the ones sitting down,
the ones who in their own
oceans of misery drown.

Look at the liars,
the ones with despicable desires,
the ones trying to drag
us down in their fires.

And look at the ones listening
to all the dull glistening
to all the lies we can't believe
that we are quickly believing.

Disease Thought to Be Dead

All may have skeletons in closets
but mine are overflowing,
coming out from the cracks
more and more obviously showing,
me trying to hide it,
keeping others from knowing,
while the witnesses within
are at the point of crowing.

All the voices inside
this head ready to explode
are threatening to boisterously
and with a scene implode.
In order to stop it
I must exit this mode
but my heart won't tell
my head what is the code.

The time has already come,
the disease thought to be dead
is now back with a vengeance
as it all comes to a head.
The moment thought to be
a turn around instead
is the very one to destroy,
the destruction of a soul put to bed.

Evident Destruction

You bring it on yourself,
you sick human being,
disgruntled in your ways,
you're too disgusting.
You can't stand to be
around what you created
with memories of the good
becoming more and more outdated.
Painting yourself into
the corner you swore against
with such fearsome ferocity
that you momentarily meant,
now that it's to brass tacks
you can't dig yourself out
of the death you've doomed
your life to with every doubt.
Gifts given squandered
and goodwill bridges burned,
a soul more burdened than ever
has nowhere left to turn
but only itself to blame
for the destruction evident
from the miles away that
in a clear rear view is too prevalent.

Nightmare Wished Fictional

So many doors closed,
just waiting for one to open,
he waits for the answers
he needs someone to show him.
Laying back and relaxing
and basking in his passivity,
he's too relaxed to see
the world passing quickly.
He waits for the doors to
expose themselves whenever
he is ready for them to do so,
whenever he says forever
but he lacks the courage to even
push the door he needs
to pass through when opportunity
comes to nourish and feed.
The door will ne'er open
for this sad individual
who lacks every inkling of courage
in this life he's created but wishes was fictional.

The Final Jersey Throw

The final jersey throw,
the final toss into the middle,
the time thought to last
forever has now dwindled.
The glory days once
thought to be invincible
now memories in the rear view
soon to be invisible.
The shirt worn with pride
as if it was owned by that
individual who wore it
is now gone off his back.
The colors fade into black,
into obscurity goes the names
that once lived in glory
and basked in all the fame
but now the jersey is gone
and so the status with it
with nothing to show for it
except the memory of the one hit.

Dear God,

please don't allow me to go,
to have always fell.
Please don't allow me to fall
into the forever well.
Please don't allow me
to, for eternity, in sin dwell.
Please save this
soul from hell.
Thank you and Amen.

Return to Normalcy

A return to normalcy,
the highs no more
and the lack of lows
what I adore,
the even keel,
the comeback to
the simpler times,
what I once knew,
the hills flattened
and excitement gone
from the ecstasy
that couldn't last long,
the depression downed,
a limiting of sadness,
the limiting to bring
an unlimited gladness,
the special days once
controlling every second
now in a rear view
making no mess of it,
the balancing act,
the tight rope trick
ready for me to
complete and stick
and welcomed with
open and hospitable arms
ready for the bland
and most boring of no charms.

The Crack

Tilt your head a bit
to see the crack
that goes down your head
and down your back,
that rips you in half
with every step
that causes more pain
as you continue to schlep.
It's the journey that drains
your every fiber
with every circumstance
becoming ever more dire.
It's the moment you realize
how dead you are
and that your hopes
are just that far.
It's that very second
you see fate's face
that puts you back
into your too real place,
that instant where you
see no further escape
only to realize it is
because it's starting to cave
and it's at that point
in that fleeting flash
that you see it all come
down to the epic crash
and it is only in the face
of that moment in time
that you realize only
your breathing is a crime.

It Blinks

Stagnant,
it blinks.
Resting,
it thinks.
Pausing,
it stays.
Quickly,
it strays.
Distracting,
it goes.
Contracting,
it glows.
Continually,
it lights.
Repeating,
it's bright.
Forever,
it shows.
Never,
it slows.

The Sneaking Suspicion

There it is again,
that sneaking suspicion
coming under
the same condition,
quiet mouths
speaking volumes
louder than
headline news.
The feeling that
says I made
another misstep
that won't fade.
It screams louder
and resonates
worse today
than past dates
as control is seized
over again,
no turning back,
no way to mend.

Fateful Math

The immaturity
that reigns supreme,
necessary, by the childish,
it is deemed.
More important
to prove the point
than care that
the point's disjoint,
he tells others
why it's done,
held by "principle,"
he holds a tongue.
He walks around
with misplaced pride,
the arrogance
that should have died,
but until he
falls on his face
his spirit will
reside in this place
that leads down
the winding path
until it adds up,
the fateful math.

Frozen Hands

The pain it is
of thawing these hands,
thawing these frozen
helper's of plans,
the pain fails
to subside,
to fall down,
unlike my pride.
It just steps
briefly from
freezing now,
but far from done.
Now the cold
turns to hot,
the burning too much
to be fought.
The heat is
more intense
than cold from
past tense
as temperature's
fierce intensity
points in my face
and laughs at me.
Time may take
this pain away
but it can't
in time to stay
so leave I must,
end this race,
to meet my eternal
resting place.

The Pressure Is All Mine

Bearing downwith the time
on these not-so-broad
shoulders of mine,
building, building,
temperature's rising,
the rush coming,
nothing surprising,
yet still forceful,
yet still fierce,
the high-pitched screams
for ears it does pierce.
Sweat dripping
until it's pouring
in moments never
construed as boring,
harsh terms reigning
supremely in the thick,
harsh terms staying
around to stick.
Moments unbearable
but asked to be bore
even when it's known
none can be taken, nothing more.
Pressures palpable,
air so thick
hearts become black,
smoking making them sick.
Knees buckling
to the ground
to be part
of a mound
but not before
a gross death,
the bloody beheading,
a fate met.

Giving Up

Giving up,
the writing's done,
I now quit,
though the sliding's just begun.
The fight to be
fought still here
is now useless,
the outcome I fear.
It is always
the same no matter
what I throw,
the problem getting fatter.
I want to
make it stop
but the focus lacks
at a pin's drop
as now I can't
push any more
to kick it
out the door.
The issue with
which is struggled
now is
the biggest trouble
and the tunnel
through which to escape
is unseen
in this treacherous landscape.
It's all over,
a loss at my hands,
a faltering to
all the demands
with the optimism
out the window
along with
a future to go.

Fuming

All the humor
with all the words,
none of the drive
and none of the urge,
just the right thing
to come from a mouth
that couldn't be more
useless nonsense if it'd shout,
a brain so wasted
on silly quips,
as encouraging as
chains and whips,
it is all for not
and all consuming
of a soul, a joke
that is now fuming.

Chaos

The self-inflicted affliction,
the glow of the growing,
the obviously obvious
that's quickly slowing,
breaking down the broken,
riding the crippled,
the problematic problems
that seem to have tripled,
the towering of towers,
the scaring fear mongers,
the preaching of the righteous
that could not be wronger,
the peace of the peacemakers
that brings war from the warriors,
the blood from the heartless
of the sacrificed couriers,
it all amounts to too much,
an amount unknown to the masses
with hopes of the hopeless
dashing from empty glasses,
empty pockets emptied out
in front of glossy eyes glossed over,
as useful as the useless idea
of the home of the eternal rover.

Abruptly

The tension's building,
the tension's rising,
nothing new
and nothing surprising.
It's too much,
it can't be handled,
it can only fall,
can only be dismantled.
The ledge approaches,
quickly draws near,
instilling the worries,
instilling the fear.
The push is felt,
it carries one over,
over the edge,
can't go further.
The thoughts race,
the words stumble,
the capacity,
it all fumbles,
but now the fall
is all too real,
nothing but fear
to still feel
with the crash,
the end that comes,
is here abruptly,
is here to stun.

The Feeling of Despair

The feeling in the stomach,
the feeling of despair,
the feeling of sickness,
the feeling that dares,
it all comes down
on a psyche split,
one that's broken
and one that's sick.
The spirit's done,
it's on the mat,
broken for good
and okay with that.
It knows the fight,
the energy it takes,
is no longer worth
the effort it fakes.
Instead its body
will remain on that mat,
lying there lifeless,
contently flat.

The Useless Whelp

Sitting in my pain,
wallowing in my sorrow
using up the time
that I've already borrowed,
the agony persists,
consistent in its needling,
crushing my weak ego,
one that needs feeding.
Tilting off the keel,
needing a straightening
to stop my falling,
to stop constant fading,
the screams within
my soul get louder
as the torment gains steam,
prouder and prouder.
It's all too much
to withstand without help,
me, my helpless self,
me, the useless whelp.

An Unfortunate Exchange

I can't remember
anything but flashes
with anger's throws
and throwing's crashes,
ice flew
and doors were slammed,
all cool heads gone,
self-control be damned.
Words were spewed
and actions out carried
with despicableness
and held tongues unmarried.
Reactions may have
warranted a response
but perhaps not the one
that was given on the spot.
The tempers flared
and emotions ran high
with voices raised
and fists to the sky.
Regrets are had
with guilt taking reign
all due to an
unfortunate exchange.