Wasted Time
So do we fall
sweetly against the brittle gunk
and waste the very minutes
of a peaceful ending.
So it was written,
and spoken,
and so shall it be written down
again.
Many sit,
wait,
and wonder when.
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poetry
Wanna Be Socrates, a poem
Dull, now babbles some
wanna-be Socrates.
A Plato of the non-
existent preverbal page.
An awkward stammer
and pause gone about
with forced emotion.
So forced that it has no force,
no power,
gone and now at rest,
deserving non of its fake praise.
Lofty lust, and more incoherent
babbles and rambles in the name
of some forgotten crackpot
pipe dream.
Again this “philosopher” speaks,
and the actual teacher wretches in the corner,
excess is the key word
of the wanna-be Socrates.
Sonnet 18 Revisited, a poem
Shall I compare thee to a summer sweat?
Thou art more sticky, unwanted and unpleasant.
Rough wings smelling of piss do flow wild as you speak,
And your public lease is illegitimate.
Sometimes too hot your words break,
And often is other complexions marked to for sin.
And every justice spirited.
By chance our natures changing course, you win,
But summer swelters always end.
No power you have is fair, throughout!
And death will grab you, gold will not ascend,
When eternal lines to time thrown out.
So long as we can breathe or see,
You are ruing my life’s prosperity.
So Many (A life Well Lived) a poem
So many tears,
So many years,
So many fears,
So many beers.
So many jokes,
So many tokes.
So many drugs,
So many hugs.
So much pain,
So much gain.
These are the things to live for,
So many things,
And so many more.
It’s Wrong When It Stops Being Fun, A Poem
A wise man once said “It’s wrong when it stops being fun.”
Well, I have to ask myself, has it?
Has pining over the right word and cadence lost its spark?
What, except the dark cloud that seeps its invisible cloak on my psyche,
Keeps me from putting all for the gods and earthly kind to see,
to hear,
to learn the truth.
Poetry is not supposed to be work,
or is that too bourgeois?
I say poetry like anything can be rebranded for the worst,
but poetry is thought, the one thing that cannot be erased.
Poetry, is something to make all our own.
So, has it stopped being fun?
Not by a long shot.
Habit, a poem
Habit, my old friend,
Or are you my enemy?
You say habit
I hear “monotony.”
Someone else says it,
And I hear “addiction.”
Habit, you could make me a great man
Or you could cause me to self destruct.
Habit,
you are helpful,
But you can also be cruel.
Habit, you be what I tell you to be.
Soul and Pain, a poem
Soul and Pain.
Here we are again,
A dying planet and a line of willful morons
Humping their hands while complaining about the better sex.
No game, and they won’t shut up about it.
Our so called leaders are afraid to lead
Because they might not be leaders anymore if they do.
Complacency is safer than action only if you’re rich.
Sex and violence and sexual violence.
Two souls comrades butchered in the streets.
Lynchings protected by badges and city hall.
Soul and pain.
21st century lies and truth.
Soul and pain.
