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 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.

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.

A Beating Heart, A Throbbing Breast

You heart is beating;
I can feel it through my chest,
its rapids rushing
through your throbbing breast.
It gains the speed
and goes down the falls,
its power great
enough to conquer all.
It screams for me
and won't quiet down.
It doesn't care
who will hear it now.
It can't contain
its passion at this point,
a passion that
does overflow and anoint.
It anoints me
as the chosen one,
the recipient
when all is said and done.
The one to thrust
the fire down upon
as the craze
goes on and on and on.
It paralyzes
my body and my soul
and takes a hold
of my being as a whole.
I can't respond
as I am taken back.
The only way
that I can now react
is to soak
this moment all in
through the pores
of my ever salty skin.
The moment will
ne'er be forgotten
as is the case
with all the feelings and emotions.
This ecstasy
that will always be
is forever one
you have given me.

Blast You

Let me blast you up and down.
Let me throw you to the ground.
Let me rip you to pieces.
Let me tear you in half
like aluminum foil fresh out of the bag
still free from coming creases.
Let me show you the passion
that has now been fashioned
out of the plethora of arguments.
Let me act surprised
of your trickery and lies
like it's an algorithmic function of common sense.
Let me stand outside
as you pretend not to cry
as walls collapse to the ground
and let me leave you alone
now that I've left that home
and you with your loneliness newfound.



FOUR WORD CHALLENGE:  blast, aluminum foil, algorithm, plethora

The Runner

Running in the dark
to get away from the light,
he runs to catch his breath
as he loses it in the cold night.
The stress melts away
in the peace presented
to him by the silence of black
and the hobby not-so-well represented.
He has no jacket
for cars to spot his position
because that would defeat his purpose
and cause yet another imposition.
He wants to be left alone
to himself and his own accord
no matter if there is danger
from the flying cars that are floored.
This evening's brisk run
is not about safety,
it's not a question
or even a maybe.
This exercise being done
is about the feeling
this solitary man gains
from this healthy dealing.
With precaution no concern
and others of no contention
there is no reason
for any type of prevention.
He will run until he can't
as he will do so uninhibited.
He will run with a passion
others only dream they could exhibit.