Ode to Traitors

In the age of America people all too fondly wage wars on the page

They sit at desks and write of travesties and tragedies

But do nothing

Activists

Revolutionaries

They call themselves

Revolutionaries do not write pages on GMO’s and Monsanto

Or the NSA and prism

They battle with rats for cheese

They scuffle with bums for rain

These men and women are more American then they care to admit and do nothing

Their patriotism includes the practice of tolerant complacency

Activists do not care for job security and 401k’s

Never do they accept omission

Being charged with the responsibility of change

They are always vigilant holding the dim lantern at the end of the tunnel

Always flickering

Dirt to a tree

I have written poem of poem of life of life with no reprieve from either

These joints do not get any smaller until they do and these mushrooms keep getting wilder as I go through them with the trouble ones I see

School never lets me breathe

Around absurdity most of all

Vain comes second closely tied with a train of vanity drying up the walls of creativity

Dreams

Hope things

Am I not a man?

When puberty stifled boys and girls try to instill in knowledge in me

The bias from dirt to a tree

To think one only comes from thee 

To my sister

I find myself speechless with unmoved blockage in the entrance to my words

For the stupid things I say and will say

For me apologizing is something that cannot measure penance for my sins

I shall try to find a way

So you know how special you are to me

The intelligence you rein encompassed dry arid deserts engulfed in your fury that once held green grassy pastures

The humor donned on your head

A gift of armor against the sores from yesterday and to come

I know the deed has been done long since past

Crept inside your beautiful soul

Corrupting inside and to the outside

I know not what they do

But loving you is something I can persist throughout time

To never falter nor quit nor waver in times of the merry battles of wit we share

I will always love you with or without your permission 

Phone calls and questions

A call comes to all of us

We all answer in on way

Where we communicate the reply that echoes into your own history

Text on paper written in inerasable ink on indestructible paper

Non-flammable books

Where you of the conversation…what will you see?

Will you have done the right things?

According to practicalities’ sake

Will you work to live?

Locked in 4 walls where above the door says “you are done when you are dead”

Will you be like a child, and go through life because it makes you happy?

Then never shall regrets be tattooed on your name

Wishing

Suffering

As the Buddha once said it these things that lead a path back around to each other

Desirous of the things other have and never will be yours

Will you carry smiles or frown’s in your bag of things for the road?

Into every doorway

Into every building

Into each face you meet through the doorway in the buildings you will cross into

What will you be?

Toilet Paper

There are these things that come and go

Go and come from you to me

I see no use in the, his or mine

The wild scramble for scraps

Like mice, they are irratically running for cheese in the trap

The stick under the bucket quick as a bullet to the head

Just not as quick

They believe in mines versus ours in mastery

They are a master of materials

King of gold and crown

Queen of theater and cloth to the toes

Dancing on stages for the between their waist

Leaving nothing of them but what is required of them

What must be done for that pocket change thrown to you like toilet paper

Frolicking with the devil's maiden

My hands are tied with hammer and nail building some factories railroad

My mouth is bound by one sided truths blindly denied as fact

Demeaned as the ramblings of paranoid doped up liars

My eyes stay glued to poverty and woe

Loveless days that never end

My head is locked in a position where disrespect shall be felt through civil disobedience

Unable to see the world beyond themselves

My feet are stuck in mud

Slowly progressing millimeters at a day

Nothing changes

Nothing moves forward

I speculate in a windowless room

Where some drug has been forced on me by my captors

Where mediocrity meshes with conformity

Behind enemy lines

I live under guard and watch and key

As I must exist under a false face

Death comes with the revealing of what lies beneath the lies and underestimations of my maturity

My sanity

My emotionality

Hinders a door from feeling the knocking of my family

Their coat of arms I bear is not mine

The house I live in is not mine

Hiding out here

Waiting the enemies’ barrage to cease

For the friendly fire to stop

I hideout in 4 walls while a battle rages on

As I scribble stories and journals entries to soothe my mad escapist soul that remains in chains from the great mystery circus act

I intend to employ on my loved ones

Until I find free

Find love

Find life under a tree