Cry

Cry

Why do we all sit there and say its okay
Why do we all hope it's not our problem
Why do we all think feeling sorry is enough
Why do we dwell on things as it that will fix them
Why do we think we should mask the nasty but do it anyhow
Why do we stand still as our friends suffer
Why do we not care as long as we can't see the pain
Why do we make sure we never meet eshothers eyes for too long
Why do we do things we know are wrong
Why do we do it when we know it will hurt them
Why do we lie to ourselves that it's okay
Why is it so hard to help
Why is it too much to expect a helping hand
Why are we not allowed to demand kindness
Why is kindness a present and not essential
Why do we treat each other like this.

Why do we know the right but choose the easy
Why is it easier to forget and deny suffering
Why is it so easy to think about ourselves
Why is it so important to think of ourselves first
Why did we forget to trust
Why do we need to believe in something more
Why do we sacrifice people for monetary gain
Why do we compete with each other and not lend a hand
Why is personal sacrifice in vain if it's for anyone else
Why did we forget to value anything other than us
Why do I feel the need to write this
Why do I bother
Why do I cry out in pain and anger
Why do I need right now for someone to tell me I'm wrong
Why can't I just accept how things are.

The Storyteller

Scattered moments and images
Do not make for story
And yet this is our frame
Our lives are stories

So perfectly crafted
With plot holes and bias
Unreliable narrators haunt
The fly on the wall

There are no stories
Just fragments broken
And scattered through years
Some provoke tears

Shapes floating foggy in
Our internal mists are
A good place to stick truth
And stories

Writing is a labour and a bore
I'm not sure how to imagine
The empty blankness between moments

Those moments of un profound quiet reflection that remind me
What I am and what I am not
I am an animal flesh bound

Determined to be something
Inspiring I dream up things
No one has ever touched or seen
I latch onto the mists of emotions

I make it flesh
Because i think
We all still want to believe
In stories.

Whispers between White Sheets

I feel and when I do I feel deeply and intensely. When you read this I hope everyone is thinking of that special someone. It's simple because when something works, it always is. Who needs complicated? I hope you enjoy this one, it's very different from my last...less than pleasant poem.

Whispers between White Sheets


I can tell you'll be here for a while
I can tell by your smile
I can tell all the while
you look at me with those beautiful almond eyes


I can tell a lot by the crinkle of your nose
I can tell so much by the wrinkles on your face
and the ways in which you wrinkle your toes
in a morning in bed beside me


I can be free feeling the silk of your skin beside me
I can be free falling in beside your step
listening to the clack of your heels
the sound of your mouth as its sips and moans


I can tell you'll be here for a while
I can tell by you smile
I can tell all the while
you hold me.

Pleasant Vibrations

Sometimes the most painful and powerful moments are inside of us. Inside of each of us there is an underground. There's a place we aren't aloud to show anyone. That's where this poem belongs in that troubling loneliness all of us have felt in our darkest moments, where we are so alienated and disconnected from the world.

Maybe one day, we human beings will know how to talk about this. Until then, here is Pleasant Vibrations.

Pleasant Vibrations


The red fuzz of lights
disguises the ugly bile within her
the rain clouds and the fog
are smoking mirrors for the
horror only she knows and no one can feel
the car thuds along
what to say
what to never say


the pleasant vibrations of the morning
are lost on her
in agony she screams out
not in pain but loneliness

Apparently

Apparently it's a virtue
To be rude
And it's kind too to unveil
Your cruelty

Apparently it's not racist as
Long as you can laugh
Apparently it's not mean if
Something good comes out of it

Apparently All the bullies
need a little more respect
Apparently feelings
Aren't important

Apparently you are a bore to care
And people could care less
About the guy eating scraps
From the sidewalk

Apparently I'm out of touch
Apparently love is a nice word
As long as its removed
from any sort of kind action

Apparently it's smart to be subtle
And it's pathetic to complain
So they tell me put a smile on my face

Apparently mistakes feel fantastic
Apparently it's okay to be honest
Just make sure it's all good
If not keep it inside
And let it fester
Keep it to yourself because
Apparently no one really cares.

Weasel Pirate

Look here look there
Not a panda nor a hare
With a thick sooty nose
somewhat oversize
With a nice pink head

It is most common
For the female to be so well
Haired and oiled
Almost glistening as it traipses
Near by lurking creeping
Pretending at grandeur and schemes
Too great for its eel midget head

ring of gold and
Doting ears
unfurl and flap
As she climbs through the rigging

Pillaging and phishing pages
She sits a throne of mud
Try not to get too sticky
You have brown on you