It all comes back to us
Botched godliness
Fathomless prejudice
Thinking we outrank other species
When we are solely the most pungent
Goodness grew from empty reliance
But a vituous few hold it close
And shield it with their hands
Their skin burning
With knuckles soaked in rain

It defies all explanation
Where these flaws come from
Each day it gets harder to fight them
Before long
All our palms will be twisted into fists
Devoid of the scars of peace
Yet held up
As if we were ever made
For something greater
We pretend to be better
But it all comes back to us



Drenched and Distorted

The rain won’t seem to stop falling here
And though I complain
I suppose it isn’t what’s stopping me
From seeing you

Perhaps it’s through these bedewed eyes
Or these grieving windows,
That I take this time to reflect –
Though the pane is rattling
Drenched and distorted

Suppose this rain could wash clean
Rather than chill our skin
And not flood the asphalt with dingy sweat
Wouldn’t that be so poetic?

Yet words aside
Things are as they are
This water has had many lives
Broken smaller then one could imagine
Lifted higher than ever before
And dropped
Sometimes I worry we’re doomed,
To a similar cycle

You’re my oxygen ripped free
Leaving me bitter and hazy
As if I might combust
But nothing feels worse
Than guilting you, over me

A wound only heals as it dries
And this goes for you
Yet every time the evening patters
It reminds me of what matters
I fear for the thunder of knowing it’s you



These opinions rise and grow
From meaning sown below

But do not sew them in your chest
Or treasure them by heart

For when they climb the garden wall
Your leaves are sprayed apart

Herbicide and verbicide
“Who cares what you have to say?”
“You’ve put too much thought into this”
Greenery clipped away

What’s the point in learning more?
Putting opinions in the sun?
The world will mow you,
To shallowest point
To be like everyone

I won’t stop building what I know
After each and every cleaving
Perhaps opinions fall down low
Without ever really leaving



Perpetual nausea
As a body resists the pill
Long since dissolved
Slipped down throats
In the deceptive comfort of our dreams

For the world is a waking nightmare
Dark clouds in our eyes and minds
As well as in our glass
Some hopeless elixer
From and by snakes

Bitter life
Mother of toxicity
Be it through injection
Or fermentation
Of the mold grown beneath our skin


Man Kind

I wish that I could write of men
But I’m disenchanted with our case
A sorry tale of disgrace
Built up behind a brutish face

So stubborn in our discontent,
Poeticism never meant,
Except for something to repent
Deemed foolish by some lost event

The lyric is a potent thing
But only if you let it ring
So conflictive with everything
With male hands I’ve seen it wringed

Yet in this sight, I do not cry –
We live, we think, we love, we die
While all the men I know don’t try
To grasp their heart, and wonder why

So in women I can see a place
Exotic, in its tranquil face
Where human beauty is embraced
With joyous passions not defaced