Unsellable Unnumbered Unique edition

There is something mad about me

My mind woven from cloth

Never known

My language unheard and I am suddenly talking alone

Some ramble on about the government

Corporations

Poverty

Wealth disparity and bad health

Still I do not pierce the ears

Made in the shiniest of metals

Receptacles for trash

A thumping, bumping, humping goes on in my head

On life

Poetry

Irrational fears of death

Music that calms

Keeping the beasts at rest

Perfect green grass

Keeps me afloat

Still there is this lingering gnawing at my chest

I feel this heart pumping

While others keep still in their breast

My feet are tingling

Felt vibrations through the floor

Am I mad?

Gone to the moon

Lost brain cells while locked in a cage

To feel unlike the rest

I must be

I must be

Be…be…mad and I am glad

To have turned out to be an unsellable unnumbered unique edition

Us poets

Us poets write words and tell tales

Then they become stone in time among the clocks and history books

We poets listen to rhyme and meter

To fill up the reader until the die

Us poets narcissistic with a dash of peppered ignorance

Then make love from a line

Us poets give names to the unnamed and sound to silence

Us poets keep intrigued by the hands of humans

Who still abuse each other with blame and regrets

Tearing flesh from soul

Hearts and minds

Us poets defy stereotypes and label makers

Us poets call ourselves beatniks and dreamers

Us poets take record tapes to the world

To turn on the cameras for the first time

As if they were the first words ever taped and recorded

Us poets do not have a rhyme or reason

We are humans with beating hearts

We are men with love lost thoughts

We are women who have been broken

Missed hops off the train

Us poets are told not to be but we are poets

That is just how it is going to be 

Puff Pass Poetry

My friend you think you know the hills and plains of my mind

They are covered in a green mystery

That only those who partake can judge

Whether it is friend to me and you or a foe which is I still

A question we all are asked

By the 4 line boxed fools filled with scarecrows

Rattling against the grain

Too afraid to touch it

Or to say fuck you to the square across the hall

This green mystified thing is for those of humanity poetry and passion

Filling coffee shops and book stores listening to the tales of emotion

People have to share on puff pass and poetry

Bad Memories

Sounds of thunder bring her back to me

Hugging her tightly

A jolt of electricity trickles down to pain to unknown stimuli

The relenting nemesis of familiar places I have seen

Where people sat around me and listened to me be free

Now gone to the machine listening to their regrets bang clash cling

Echoing until they have found the reason to their regretful enslavement 

Dear boy

The warden calls out

Dead man walking!

Dead man walking!

For all to see

The scuffling feet of the deceased

All is silent but the echo of his soul

A new world locked out of what was not new

Bars and violence without windows and peace

To sit the wise men down upon his throne

In which metamorphosis can begin

With which no reprieve shall be written

So he gives himself to it

His words to it

His image to it

Planning and plotting for freedom

To be readied at the gate

Now is for the waiting

The doing part will come when it will come

Dear boy

The sounds of the Earth

Solitude and silence

Perfect and quiet

To feel at peace

A family of one

No worried strangers to depict my life

No tug and pull on my chain

No doubt is set upon my head

Isolation

Nature

Music affects us

In the wind

Water

Earth

Fire

Puts its tune to a track

Now just words are necessary

Sands

Fleeting birds flap their wings away in the dark of night

As she is hugged tightly by the grey clouds

Water droplets roll of me like snake skin

Peeling away to a new and then I am this

Lost nostalgia does not concern me

As a shriveled raisin does to time

The sands go further and further down

As I go further and further down

Until time and the beckon and call

Persists to a spot where no longer does the sands of time

Be a worry of mine