As depression slowly sinks in
I wonder
Is this really me?
Or is this a life I think I know?
Am I here?
No.
Not from a meteorite or a flood.
The world will be destroyed
By ignorance and greed.
Do people care?
No one even realizes.
Do I care?
No.
My world is long gone.
But when this one is forsaken
There are other places for me.
I can leave, but I don't know how.
I will find out,
Then one day,
I will be gone.
What is life?
Is life a force of
Unimaginable power?
Is life a stimulant
In my brain
That makes me think and feel?
Is life a dream
That everyone shares
Or a nightmare
That I alone face?
Do you even exist?
Am I a madman for questioning?
I am a mad man.
For sure.
I am mad at the way
That I am treated
By people that may
Or may not be
Figments of my imagination.
So what is life?
Does it matter?
Do you care?
Why?
Why?
Is there an answer?
Can any mortal answer?
Who decides?
Not I.
Who?
You?
No.
You wouldn't let this happen.
Would you?
Could you?
Why?
Why?
Why?
Because.
Life is fickle,
Ever changing,
Never there.
Why do we live at all?
To die?
Is that our purpose?
Is it?
Would it be?
Could it be?
Why?
Why?
Why?
Does life mean anything?
Is there really a reason?
If so, then what?
Death?
Our purpose is unseen.
Our purpose is dismal.
Why do we live?
For love of Death?
Would we?
Should we?
Why?
God?
Are you there?
When I talk to you
Do you hear me?
When I talk to you
Do you care?
God?
Why don't you answer me?
Are you what
You say you are?
Is this a one-way
Conversation with my Savior?
Life is what we make of it
That is what they say
If I tried to be happier
Would I have a better day
Life is what we make of it
That is what I hear
Life is what we make of it
And we have nothing to fear
nothing but life
i'm burning to death
my life is aflame
eternally burning
and wasting away
my soul is flooding
washing away
i can't hold on
another day
the heart is a mudslide
of grief and pain
emotions hold
a tyrannical reign
my mind has the makings
of a hurricane
random but feirce
and praying for rain
Swift is Life.
Swifter is Death.
Love conquers all;
All but Death.
Winds change;
The same is Death.
Fire is power
Until it's Death
Earth is strength
But lives on Death.
Water flows forever,
As does Death.
All the swifter is Life.
The more you die, the faster you will live.
(No one has EVER told Alexandra she was a good poet... :) )
The Invisible Homeless
The Pain...
The Suffering...
The Hunger...
And Fear...
No home...
No money...
No food...
No clue...
Where will I sleep tonight?
When will I eat again?
Will my children survive?
Will I?
The homeless are here.
We breathe and we live,
But the questions are many
And the answers are none.
Based on the photograph
"Migrant Mother, Nipomo Valley"
by Dorothea Lange, 1936
Trajedy Strikes the United States
September eleventh, two-thousand-one
Osama bin Laden strikes again
A country in horror
A world in shock
Weapons of destruction,
Scorn and mock
Weapons? No, our own machinations
Death by associations
Lifeless, loveless, projectiles nigh
Gemini falling from the sky
Defense forgone
For all and none
The world at war
But what for?
Me
I am not normal
Not at all.
I have met demons and
Vampires.
How does it make you
feel to know I am the
incarnate soul of Lucifer himself?
Unlike most weirdoes
I am a poet.
Unlike the majority of poets
I am a good poet.
Not only that, I am an
oral interpreter.
I was once like
the rest of you but
I've transcended.
Like many of you, I
sought poetry that suited me,
poetry I could
win
with.
But poetry isn't win or lose.
Poetry is expression.
Now I use poems like
this
Poems I wrote, poems I read.
People ask me why.
Why do I write poems that look
beautiful on a page, meant
to be read, looked at, optically
appreciated. why do I write such
poems only to read them allowed
with no one seeing the uniq-
ueness.
The answer is simple.
I don't care if I win or lose.
I don't play the game.
My Self
Life, Liberty, the pursuit of
happiness.
What about Sanity.
Where are our rights
to that.
We are not sane, You
are not
sane.
I, My Self, am not even
close to the borders
of what might in liberal
circles be considered
the sanest act in an asylum.
I am alive, I am free,
and I could be happy if I tried
But i am not happy, because
i don't know how to be happy.
happiness requires sanity
and with none sane enough
no one is happy.
My Self, it is not happy.
My Self is on the brink of desecration
of concecration and youthful
ambition toward something
higher, or lower perhaps.
I don't know which, for My
Self chooses the whats
and whiches it wishes to tell me.
I'm not incontrol of the Self I call my own.
There is not enough sanity in the world
to control such an awesome thing.
My Life
From across the room
our eyes meet.
My soul blazes with love
Desire
Emotions run anarchical
through my leaden viens.
The length of your eyelash
flashes fire into my being
the beauty that is you
forces my world to
descend into nothingness
around you
for you
as you
and I know you are
The One.
There is nothing for me
but you, all from one glance.
Let any man who believes not
in love at first sight
that poet's dream (and
I the poet)
be prov�d incorrect.
Love does exist
and it is destroying me
from inside, all joy
in this world being consumed
by you
for you.
The world around me notices my
unwavering gaze and
I step forward, my path
headed for the light in
my eyes, the light
that halos from you
my goddess.
I move, I cross
Your brow raises seductively
inviting me closer,
the stool beside you
lies empty.
I sit.
I whisper in your ear
the sweet nothings of
"what's up Bitch?"
Swift kick to the nuts.
I am down