It’s not my calling
To cry repentance
To command crowds
To submit to my will
It’s not my mission
To scoff
To scorn
To declare others’ worth
It’s not my errand
To prophesy
To condemn
To sift the wheat from the tares
It’s not my calling
To cry repentance
To command crowds
To submit to my will
It’s not my mission
To scoff
To scorn
To declare others’ worth
It’s not my errand
To prophesy
To condemn
To sift the wheat from the tares
2022, you were full ofwell, stinky stuff… Online outrage operativesPompous pretentious “patriots”Temperamental Twitter trollsRadicalized racket ringleadersPetty political provocateurs I could go onbut I won’t. You had your momentin the spotlightmore than you deserve. No more. None of youwill play a rolein my 2023. Buh-bye.
I am nostalgiaListening to top hitsOf the eighties and ninetiesDressed in forgotten fashionsOf layered plaids, pastels, and neon. I settle before my flickering screenHitting backspace, delete, escapePurging reports of the counterfeit captainWho fought invisible warsThat sunk his own ships. I hear echoes Of a once fantastic futurePermanently adriftIn a sea namedWhat Should Have Been. Note:…
Alright, folks, let’s talk. I know I’ve been MIA from this blog lately. But hold your gasps—absent doesn’t mean idle. I’ve been busy tinkering with a few ideas that didn’t quite feel like they fit here. Still, I figured it’s high time I gave the handful of you keeping up with me a little update….
Empty bowlgrumbling hunger–why is there no food? Scorched seedsdrifting directionless–hoping for life in barren soil. Cracked well,leaking water–mocking parched souls their unquenchable thirst. Lonely footprintsshifting in sand–lost without a willing guide. Threadbare cloak,dangling forlorn on a rusted hook–barely sheltering those left in the cold. Withering vines,trembling leaves–yearning for a smog-cloaked sun. Rusted gateguarding mocked cries–echoing…
GoalpostsWheredid theygo?Where do we focusthe gameto even score?Weren’t theyover there?Where?Over there.There,between the sidelines,at the end,by the…Who’s that?A doctor?She saysshe’s a doctor.Cameras concede.Wait,what wasmy point?Again?I feel as ifI werea straw manunravelingin the wind.Victim to anargumentI never made.What time is it?I’m thirsty.I need water.I needto get tothe well,but they saidthe wellhad been poisoned.By a red fish,beating itselfagainst…
Pennies for my thoughts? If only my words were worth the cost and overtime hours I dedicate: writing, tapping, scrapping, trashing, rearranging, replacing, hoping they grab your hearts the way they grab mine. Poetry may feed the soul, but it does not do much for the grocery bill. If you enjoy the poems here, consider…