Laugh at yourself more.
Make alternate plans.
Stop speaking in arguments.
Get out while you can.
Eclipse those bold around you.
Expand your mind like desert sand.
Excuse the ill-hearted.
Lie in the sun, get tan.
Be realistic less.
Find happiness more.
Search out your inner Self;
caress and appreciate its core.
Be happy for what you have.
Never attempt to settle the score;
forgive and forget-
because what’s life for?
Realize you are always wrong,
even if you “know” you are right.
Become a better person,
this can happen over night
Be the nicest human being,
not some stuck-up snob.
Tell the government to end wars,
by dropping photo-bombs.
Shake hands with strangers,
meet your new friends.
In the end there is nothing to lose,
so start a new trend.
Open your eyes to adversity.
direct those who can’t.
Try the best to be yourself.
Try your best to understand.
Always exercise patience.
Always exercise. Period.
Never stop learning and reading.
Never stop being weird my friend.
Today is right now.
Yesterday is gone.
Listen to sweet birds singing your song.
Rainbows happen in storms.
Sun is better when it rains.
How good do you feel?
For that you can thank pain.
Understand there is no certainty,
from one moment to the next.
So do everything you can,
be passionate- do your best.
Laugh at yourself more.
Engaging keys to dance on the screen
a sticky banged-out sort of language,
eyes flicker-flash as they register,
each finely enacted word is painted.
Sentences used decidedly, discrete-
far beyond just average meaning,
right below the incomprehensible
reading brings light day dreaming.
Realism in lines, dots, and white blank space;
page-art, satire even written in haste,
excessive save excite, readers we do invite,
the slashes and dashes become grammar’s delight.
Ah, to scribe
Ah, what for?
Ah, to be a part.
Ah, what more?
Thoughts just come, one by one;
even when lacking to grasp,
some are produced with purpose-
others just come from the ass.
It is easy to complain, but so much harder to compliment.
It is easy to say we make, but so much harder to create content.
the downtown life;
concrete jungle summer,
new-comers and city lovers.
the space betwixt is a waiting room for action:
excitement for concern,
and trash abandoned.
business casual, with cash they flirt,
although beggars with signs ask first.
there is always art, music, and thought to sell.
waiting is the pedestrian,
some adventure sought:
tourist; look at the mess we’re in!
bus-stop theatre, a show free of cost.
completely and utterly lost,
sticking out like sore thumb,
through structures which shoot into the heavens;
box shaped, corporate; of consequence.
hotter than hell,
clothes transforming to shells.
spells, smells, and potions.
and buzzing busy waiters and waitresses.
causing big eyes-
Poetry for Profit;
The dilettante says.
It just doesn’t happen,
It’s an illusion in the sick minded head.
Ads which have mislead.
They have a job to do:
They have to pose and fit for trends.
If you do it for monetary reasons,
You won’t genuinely achieve success.
Real artists have bled,
They don’t concern themselves with worrying about the point-spread.
People live fantasy lives all the time
Where they are famous
They are sought-after
They are “the greatest”, labeled by their closest friends.
Where they try their best to be noticed,
But no one cares in the end.
If you write to proclaim “I’m a poet”,
To get paid cash and attain lavish threads,
To fulfill a lifestyle image that’s been played-out,
In order to satiate big dreaming ego-ed heads.
I have news for you:
You could write non-stop for the rest of your life,
But writing won’t always be the hot ticket trend.
So many others have paved the way before you,
While you merely lazed lying in your comfy bed.
Try doing your passion for years and years to free your mind, to share thought, to pass the time, unnoticed.
Don’t do it for profit, never do art for profit; take a look at the masters, they lived in destitute, some unrecognized in their lifetimes for what they had accomplished.
Go, go, go-
I know people who have done more with less, they are called my relatives.
Eyes in front,
Focusing on some high-rise Ant Farm
No coffee; none for sale.
Thoughts on our time
When contemporaries write on depression
And how they want to write,
Do they write for words or recognition?
In my mind,
At the beach
An ex heroin addict describes me as fat- I react.
Off to work
Watching busy professionals pace hard by
Begging for fame- notice me! They say.
-Under heavy skies.
Leathered Leaves holding residence
Of standing in pots of dirt in present
These structures capturing the eyes
Outlined fine disguised greyed skies
Boxed and boarded in this casement
Of the light opposed save debasement
Terrarium rest the inquisitive patients
Along the observation deck, gauging at situation.
Shoes lined the step
No faces to connect
Worn Chuck’s symbolize fun
Mindset symbolized by dress
Who owns them in person?
Who unties them at rest?
Who wears them out walking?
Who sits them snug under desk?
A mile in shoes and you’ll know any old fool
One’s on life’s route just running through
Jumping foils and flows constant as they go
Rubber soles smoothed stories traveled true
The ebb and flow goes under toe
The times that move ever slow
We walk on fast, and move on past
Our shoes just follow below.
One can always tell a shoe by the wearer
One can tell a major by Chuck Taylor’s (English).