A man

I don't know what it means to be a man anymore
it definitely isn't that
it isn't marriage and children
it isn't bull headed arrogance
it isn't machismo and stoic ice faces
I can't tell anymore
I know people like to think so
its easy to disrespect the child dressed in his father's clothes
trying to emulate this big scary man from his youth
the man with mallet hands who tells you how to be strong
but in doing so shows you his weaknesses
its easy to put on his shoes and wear them around
its harder to choose your own and wear them around
its not courageous to do the old thing over again
I know people like to think so
does being a man have to be that?
i hope not
i hope men change their ways because they give me a bad rap
i know that they will not
id like them to try anyways
there are many ways to be a man
its not my fault none of them have been found out

hollow rubber band

I don't like people all that much
they usually make me mad
they tell me how to live and when to be docile and obedient
it is anger
they create
in flows up my veins
protruded up on my forearms as i clench my fist
i am their work
their project to repair and fix
i rebuke their corrective measure and counsel
i know do not know what will happen tomorrow or today
i cannot deiced my fate from others
i am emboldened by my anti this or that
i am encouraged by their attempts
normalcy is a disease i will not catch
i am not enthralled by their successes
i do not know how to tell them
i am the enduring leather from the blade
they slice and cut and trim and shear
there is a mess on the floor that is left
a pile of rubble and i am is whats left
the trouble is it all grows back
their work is like the hollow rubber band that always snaps back
no matter how far you push and pull
i always come back
right at you

The sidewalk's burden

I can't shake this hatred
it is embedded in my skin
just those little words
made me into some kind of thing
i can't think straight and i am churning in my belly
it burns me down and metamorphosis into ash
i am swept away under the rug
like i was never there
30 years was nothing
my life is hard
an illusion
it tricks me sometimes
disruption pulls me out
ripped from the glass tube
it keeps me calm
subdued into a stupor
from my interruption
i am bleeding red and see again
the walls having crumbled
the floor cracking
the shingles from the roof falling in near my head
there is a ray of light peering in
the dry wall is easy to break out of
the grass is dead
no green in sight
it is just as desolate here as it is in the house
it is still decrepit
the concrete sidewalks breaking from their burden
the roads have been up rooted and covered in asphalt
they tell me it covers up the cracks
but we all know they are there

The waking

In the morning
I read Li young lee
I like his child like wonderment
how he embodies the thoughts of being alien
perplexed by the comings and goings of human beings
just as i am stunned by their activities
i feel kismet between he and i
I like reading Nietzsche
he makes me feel lucidity
between flashes of sanity
clarity of my mind
i wonder if i have always been this way
thought this way
my foot steps always lead me here
and i read eternal reoccurrence and I'm satiated with thinking of thinking
I like being silly because my head is heavy
an anvil chained around my skull
it weighs me down and i look at the floor
i see all the foot steps of people
i wonder if i look like them and walk just the same
i wonder what they look at me and see
a man with an anvil chained to his head
In the afternoon i elevate consciousness to watch down from the clouds
i transcend on the mountain top
i can see how all the actors play their roles
i see myself and giggle and chuckle from my core
i nap and dream
to turn it all off
shut it down to refresh from thinking and thinking
my slumber takes me hand in hand with desires and sought after dreams
i fight and solider on and on
i live fantastical romances with a woman i love
i fly between fir tress above grassy fields
then i wake and see my hardened clay feet
In the evening I like to listen to music
loud guitars make me feel anger and rage
i dream of what id do in their face
what harm id inflict and exercise my animalistic tendencies
it carries on until I'm done
when i sleep i giggle and is sillies
i dream of nothing sometimes
just black and then the waking

Reach

Where has my brain gone today?
I feel it slipped and dropped from its place
I'm wandering from space to space
I wonder why I am in this place
If I can escape to the place I'm going to
I keep pondering why do it at all
Can I make it away
I feel stuck in thought
A quicksand pulling me down further into my thoughts
The illuminating lights dancing above head
Give me light to see
I am curious
to what I'll be
What places I will be
Stuck in
My arms reach for the other option out
I reach further still
Motionless
My feet are still
Yet I reach
That my art will be the branch
Of my ascending
Up the mountain
Up and over the hill
To the peak
And then what will be left for arms to reach
What would it matter?
If I reached
My mountain
I am lost trying to find that branch
to pull me up
Somewhere to put my feet
Still I reach

I am a baby

I am a baby
Brand new
The softness of my skin
The pink epidermis
Seeing
Feeling
Sensing
I must re read
Re do
Begin
To do something new
I must be re broke and remade
A new redone me for you
Lady Poetry
Now old and haggard
Leave her to become dust to blow with the wind
And to be
rediscovered
reincarnated
To be brought through
In my wildish ways
left to the dust of old and haggard men
Remember the youthful invincibility of anger and rage
How the beasts push you in raging and not let the dying of the light go without a fight
In wisdom and time
Lady poetry sits and waits
It is in thought and maticulation and intuitive contemplation
Spontaneous and teleological
I wait and sit to see where she comes out
what the line of my life will drag and pull
and
create
sitting
waiting
and seeing
How lady poetry has changed in her new state
and in mine

waiting for the end

Silence is beautiful in the night
when you hear the frogs croaking their tune for the moon
In the night the wild bests ride
I can hear all the buried dead men alive
As they holler their stories far and wide
Of tales of hardships and men who had it hard
Their stories read long and slow like the torture that was inflicted
with the hands of those well equipped to deal it out and they still live today
The dead men buried alive are still waiting
for it all to end in the midst of shackles and blood
As their skin is peeled back over their eyes
they still feel it's barrage of fists and knives
Bruises and cuts opened and bled more with a red that never ends
Vibrant as it is cutthroat and beautiful
wondering when it will end
they were put in cold wooden boxes for the wealth they never gained
I can hear them cry and wail all night
Telling their stories and waiting for the end