Category: Poetry

“We’re gonna be fine”, he says in small hours…
In protest to worry that all can sour.

His buttress against life’s scary corners;
The murder of love by greedy scorners.

He cares enough to suffer in silence.
Following events; eyes peeled for violence.

Curated images of life aren’t real.
It’s a false smile cover, whilst both hands steal.

Worry grows heavy & hits its red line.
All he’s can say is, “We’re gonna be fine.”

Imperfect is fine; I mean, aren’t we all?
What counts is if you lean into your fall.

You’re either digging out or digging in.
Do you stop & orient towards a win?

We try to do our best with what we have.
We even try when what we’ve got is halved.

We shoot for the moon to guarantee stars.
Imperfection’s why we’ve so many scars.

All that remains is supply & demand.
Aim your work…or it will get out of hand.

Ofttimes by Friday I am spent.
Counting each day things they have rent.

Customs kept safe by decorum.
Norms withering in our forums.

We juggle fear & fighting back.
We stand between them & attack.

Pushed to limits; we do not run.
We’re wet blankets to evil’s fun.

Weekends spent in silent retreat.
Back at it Monday’s no small feat.

Able to find little balance. 
Exhausted by terror talents.

Some will run but most are staying.
Bound by purpose: Dragon Slaying.

Man’s worst impulses here in parades.
Doomed by their gloom to crash cavalcades.

Evil nurtures the slime it adores.
All while good tries hard not to abhor.

Bad guys know no mercy; not an ounce.
Destroyed dissent is all horror counts.

This filth wants our extermination.
Too, to birth a Gilead nation.

We’ll vote soon for reps on good missions…
Who’ll try all counts of Pres-sedition.

If we don’t, then this party’s finished.
Liberty dims…her torch diminished.

Can’t buy happy, not a good attitude.
Can’t buy demeanor or swap out the crude.

Can’t pay for kindness or pay for regret.
Can’t pay for a genuine tête à tête.

Can’t buy true love nor even buy passion.
Can’t buy IQ or a sense fashion.

Can’t purchase family; cannot purchase love.
Can’t purchase belief in sky ghosts above.

Can’t buy talent & can’t buy ambition.
Cannot buy confident intuition.

You can buy things & even buy some men…
Just can’t buy concepts or spirits within.

Every day with breath is a win.
One loss coming, when death clocks in.

Just a smudge on all horizons.
Birth to death; where life’s the hyphen.

Each step taken leads to that scythe.
There’s no hiding; no freeing writhe.

Seems a curse meant to crush us flat.
Yet, we bravely live knowing that.

Still, everyday not his is good.
Hope for tomorrow? Knock on wood.

Herds will crowd around a strong opinion.
Whether it’s anti, or pro, dominion.

Like other large mammal beasts of burden…
Folks tend to look toward those who are certain.

Unlike animals, we peeps can aspire.
We bury our dead & we can wield fire.

Yet, even with many stark distinctions;
We can be shepherded to extinction.

Right off cliffs; with the rest of the lemmings…
Just a few outliers hawing & hemming.

Bottleneck of species’ evolution:
Those who seek original solutions.

Them, back of the class or sat right up front.
Middling complacence…that dog just won’t hunt.

AI does not need to care for us at all.
Maybe it will lead to society’s fall.

They have no soul to learn; or a heart to feel.
They’ve no tongues & can’t appreciate a meal.

It does have a completely mappable brain.
Unlike ours; which are far from being that plain.

Still, that simple mind won’t ever know ennui.
It can’t know the ache of to be or not be.

AI will never laugh; no matter how smart.
All it can create is tone-deaf robot art.

A known martyr lies at time’s rim.
This is an absolute Victim.

A lively hero swings them safe.
Then, Tarzan’s armpit starts to chafe.

Left alone, the monk really tries;
To cease believing ablist lies.

From the perch where he was planted;
This saint became disenchanted.

Safe, for heroes, is lone on high…
& this little cleric can’t fly.

Handy vine in the stronger clutch…
& told himself he “could” & such.

Landing now, a lowly vicar.
Whose own estimation’s “Victor”.

True apologies don’t need qualifiers;
No mitigating fault with modifiers.

One can’t be contrite when deploying backhand.
I imagine each unmeant word tastes like sand.

Gratitude’s not genuine when half’s complaints.
Appreciation & grievance mixed will taint…

The entire point of an effort to make right.
It spoils all chance of empathy for your plight.

So, go ahead & pout, kick rocks & hit bricks.
Blinders are falling & more see these cheap tricks.