This poet isn’t meat and bones
He feels like cold stone
this poet lacks confidence
Walls collapse and collide
with his speech
with wounds you can only teach
hurt
This poet tells ugly truths
with minimal evidence or proof
he holds it like business card in his heart
life unfolds like a shopping cart
til tart solutions
This poet feels full
his heart holds his universe
it’s his curse
All poems tell a tale
dripping ink
Bleeding from the quill
I can’t even imagine life without those words
but like birds
they have flown
To a new throne
cold and alone…
Reality folds
like cold magic
origami of sorts
we play games with people like they are sports
our retorts
litter more than plastic
we get sick
sicker than we are laid in our casket
What happened to the child
in our hearts
We are nothing more than happy shoppers with shopping carts
This reality is an exchange of ideas of money of time
but we can’t see beyond the lines
that take control
take our minds our bodies our souls
we tell our selves they are words
but we aren’t even as free as the birds
which fly free in the sky
we are the prophecies
with our opportunities
we our the sickness we accumulate
we are the best and the worst
the sanguine curses
Hell which lives with hope
but hope is a bird that lives in a cage
singing in its hopeful rage…
Sometimes I want to be understood
but I know people look at me like dead wood
They might think I am stand offish
that I don’t belong in an office
That I am unsociable
or just plain weird
Someone to be feared
I have walked the corridors in mental institutions
I am reminded that most truths are illusions
that there aren’t many solutions
in this life
and trauma are the wounds that often get reopened by people
who aren’t evil
but are ignorant
and every where people are playing games to gain attention
that’s where identity survives
But I am in the minority because I won’t fit in the racket
of this life’s corrupt core
I barely survive grasping at straws
every day a war
to be heard amongst the shouting words of others