The Thing About That Word


The thing about truth is that it points out 

some wrongdoing on the part of us all, 

and our social values tend to be primitive in nature

whereby we choose human sacrifice

in the same way ancient civilizations

burned people at the stake and crucified them

for even suggesting such a thing, as if for us all

to bear the weight of life's burdens together

is an absurdity.

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A Breeze of Memory

A graveyard of dead trees

Fallen leaves of vast red and orange seas

Squirrels scurry before winter strikes

As children play while others pass on bikes


harmony of the trees an the wind come together and sing

As a bird chirps then stops to clean it's wing

Children shrieking and screaming as they play

Angry armies of cars roar past, then fly away


Memories start of when I was a kid

Only broken away by time an what it did

Sitting still only in question

Of who I am and to what is my impression


I laughed . . . I played here

I was happy unknown of fear

But then reality again breaks memory's connection

Only to be lost again, still unknown of my reflection


Author's Notes/Comments: 

annnd, here you have yet another class assignment that I did way back.


Monsters In The Dark

Now listen to what I have to say

For the wicked hide in the shadows of this day


You know nothing of what is of me

You may know the color of my eyes

But not of what they are capable to see


Now here, I've warned this upon you

For not every smile is ever true


Everything is not set in stone

You may say there is an answer

When nothing is completely known


Close your eyes, please understand

That what you may rely on is a blood-thirsty hand


Unknown of what they truly are

Watch think before you turn and talk

Someone so close to you can be so far


So remember before you go on and say

"But why would anyone do this to me anyway?"


Human nature can be full of evil and greed

Unwatched, A monster born within the shadows, full only of self pleasure and need.

First Cry


One baby is born 

Wailing at the top 

Of his lungs.


Another whimpers,

And coos, as if to smile

Their way here.


Self-expression thrashing,

Or gently frolicking it's way

To life, along with our very breath.


There are the first

Inklings of vocalization,

A cry into the shadows.


Within weeks,

Light arrives for some,

And figures can be seen.


Caregivers of the baby

'Read' and interpret what they think are

The baby's needs, heart, desires.


Like poetry, 

Sometimes the reading

Is misinterpreted.


Sometimes the reader 

Places extra lines, words, phrases

From their own unfullfilled needs, heart, desires.


And sometimes the reader

And the writer can be falsely led

To think they understand each other.


Sometimes the reader

And the writer are falsely led

To think they misunderstand each other.


Sometimes, on rare occasion,

The reader reads because they have an inner love

For the beauty of self expression.


Like the newborn baby

That wails,

Or whimpers...or coos.


It is not the wailing or the whimpering, 

Or even the cooing, but the beauty

Of human expression that touches them.


And sometimes, upon occasion,

The writer writes for the sole purpose

Of self expression.


And people read into it,

And see what it is

They need to see.


We are all wailing,

Whimpering babies,

Pretending to be adults, it seems.


How will you express yourself today?

How will you be understood?

Will you be understood?


Chances are,

You will not be understood,

Or at least, not completely.


Humanity, being 

Connected through the heart,

But lost in words.



The longest lie that has 

Ever been told.


So poets, write your poems,

Cry your wailing sagas

Of horror and grief.


Coo your flowery words 

Of love and forevermore,

Undying beauty that stirs your passion.


Remember yesterday,

Dream about tomorrow,

Cry and coo to the shadows in the dark.


Thrash and dance your way

Back to the heart, and express all you have

Been wanting to express.









Author's Notes/Comments: 




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To Become

Society's filled so dark
A sickness fit to last
A hasty hungry shark
A one that bites the glass

The air turns a poison mist
and the grass turns to a distant waste
A glare becomes a fist
and then a flower becomes erased


Bound by the cities

Bound by another one's pity's

Expect a place to be

Or expect not want to be seen


And I'll take you as walking money

I see you as a pretty big funny

We and I, all have found our place

And you my dear, have barely found a face

Bound to me, and to my briefcase

I'll lend you a smile, but you're a secret disgrace


Find the comfort in another's eyes

But in reality, another girl will have them hooked on their clever disguise

Find a place to be

Or expect not want to be seen


Stuck in a rut

With no qualities, not knowing what

Who are you and what are you in this city?

Gone and withdrawn, alone and all shitty?

Expect a place to see

Or expect us to be mean


For you are bound

What goes around, comes around

You are stuck here, forever with me

With no voice, or founding plea


For you are bound

My slave, to paint my sacred ground

The Poison In You

What if I wasn't like you?

And I was just me, and Myself was true?


And if you did bad would it mean I would too? 

Would it mean if I did it, I'm exactly like you?


Would I be subject to your evil?

Would I be subject to your internal upheaval?


What if I am good in spirit,

And you might just rather not hear it


And if I did bad, does it mean I'm just like you?

Looking for an excuse for the culprit that causes blue?


Decisions left to baseless comparison

Myself gone from me, and origin

She tells me so, I'm just like him and her

Do you see my other qualities as just a blur?


Bring my poison, she admits me to it

Determines me as someone else and then she sits


Then, who am I?

A continuation of your deranged views, someone elses cry?

Untitled Repose



Untitled Repose

Because I am an emotional man,                                                                                                                                                                 Who has it in his head that emotions are irrational,                                                                                                                                     And whom in the absurdity of this misery,                                                                                                                                              Prefers to hold the hand of these abstractions,


So then as my pen touches down on paper,                                                                                                                                                      I am made whole and then released to roam.

Thus it is to be,                                                                                                                                                                                             That the young and growing poets dream,                                                                                                                                                                  Is ever to remain alive in the hungry heart,                                                                                                                                                     Of said endless illusion.



On the whiteness of this page,                                                                                                                                                                      Past the singular threads bleached black,



Lays the grunt of the imagination grazing on the plane of our reality,

And in this native hue of resolution,

~Like Others Past~

I am none the less:



“Sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought’’

And all my sins remembered,



Author's Notes/Comments: 

This maybe the only one I post in this folder, I'll store the rest. Perhaps next summer I will get around to posting them.

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Our Good Friend

Our Good Friend

Where have you gone?

Its been so long.

Ever since you’ve left

There has been murder,

and suicide.

There has been theft,

and pottery.

 It has become impossible to trust.

We wear knife vests and shields on our backs

Our good friend, that everyone lacks


Our good friend

When you were here

 Always to stay

 You brought aid,

and comfort.

We shared bread,

 and gave shelter.

We trusted others with our lives

Our backs bare

Our good friend, when you were there


Our good friend we need you back

Forever to stay

You may never return

But an ember of your fire may burn

Or we will freeze without you

There is still hope, we might make do

All in all, that is left to see.


To our good friend, Humanity.

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