Poetry

An Ode to Landscaping

Keep your edges on game
Maintain, clean shave
Burn the remains of life slain to regain control of a brain
That won’t stop you living in pain
Don’t pay for sins til clouds spit on your grave
What’s in a name
But a soul; control
Nine number’s all it takes to harvest energy like cattle
Don’t think you’re not chattel
A mastermind no but a system on fire
Ever searching for a buyer of higher designer ideologies
That simmer men to create psychologies
Reduced to nothing but the need to repent and beg apology
For daring to set foot atop a crust of a bludgeoned rock under an unloving god
So what’s the shock
When your grass keeps growing
When your ignorance keeps showing
When you wrote the script but still don’t fit it
What’s your limit
Your mind’s a hornet’s nest, ain’t it best not to kick it

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Untitled

Progressive, relentless, merciless
An uninhabitable truth or an uncomfortable lie
Sit still in your decaying skin
Personality evaporates
Crystals emerge from pools of liquid chaos
Give back in anguish all you never meant to take

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Simple

I am simple. Everyone wants to proclaim their intricacies; expounding endlessly on the ways they are enchantingly singular. But I am simple. You are simple. We are the same, you and I. There is not so much between us as there is underneath us. Just like a cat in a box that might be both dead and alive, I am both enduringly unique and painfully bland.

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The Race

 

Go on and rush to your deathbed

Collecting titles and plastic power as you go

Leave your instincts in the primordial hindbrain where they belong

And break cosmic silence with the success only you could sow

 

Put living on indefinite hiatus to have a life

Ignore the screams of suffering

You know nothing, owe nothing, for their strife

 

Love one, one and only one ’cause love is zero sum

But hate, hate all you can ’cause “us and them” spells endless fun

 

Bust ass to make cash for a family you never see

Tell em money can’t buy happiness, but nothing in life is free

 

Make a small fortune

Buy clothes made by kids half the age of yours

Give to charity

Keep the real wealth to even score

 

Leave your ethics at the door of the million-dollar church

Where the little people go to be ascribed a sense of worth

Put a dollar in the hat and pass it on in holy song

Take forgiveness with a grain of salt, get dressed to be blessed and get gone

 

Feed the rabid underdog with imagined criticism and adversity

Don’t give into the nagging voice that says you’re inherently worth something

 

Go on and rush to your deathbed

Leaving trampled others in your wake

Your awards are meaningless without an audience

So keep breeding–God makes no mistakes

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Instinct

Do you sense it?

The pervasive vibration that makes your insides cringe and reject all the love you think you’ve put in.

The putrid smell of failure, of crying, of trying but never holding on to all that you win.

The foul taste from the cup that you’d sworn was pristine.

The demons that hide, safe and quiet in your dreams, their shadows remaining though your mind is wiped clean.

The creeping sensation that there’s something you’ve missed.

That your life may not best be made with a clenched fist.

 

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