Cry Wolf - a poem

On other side of door is entrance to an unpredictable prize
one that smells like, looks like, and must be like, for indescribable
is medicinal way to conduct user to interface
with prizes that they might not want to take.

That it is like such and such, and we should recognize
indeterminate methods that might pinpoint this problem
to a select place among rabble that demands prize money
be commissioned out and on time for whoever so demands
it.

On other side of doors is answer to age old questions,
such as that, such as this, such as those, or these
and we as a people are predictable in our conceit
that we do not care to listen to reasonable words
but would rather attack with rash panic.

That is answer that must be catered to, select meats
to feed masses, but littered with political rat poisons
and zeitgeist meandering, and pandering to views that reflect
deepest fears, and worries that might filter out of mind
as osmosis might do in symbiotic assortments of cellular bypass.

On other side of door is another door, and another door, and,
and, and,

nothing, obliviousness, as sky is falling,
we are all chicken little.

Your Mama - a poem

your mama jokes were fashionable for a season
but still we persist in telling them and insulting people because
there is nothing more than nothing to do but to say your wrong
for your mama to be so rash in assuming that people just don't get
the name of the game and the game is insults, because we cannot determine
the world to be so mass produced.

listen to words that people say the way they insult the people
with whom they know nothing about. like, for instance, your mama so something,
but they do not know just what your mama has been through, or your papa
or anyone for that matter.

lets get ready to jump down the throat of all the people
who seem to benefit with rifting the world open,
ripping it to shreds, and thus determine that there is no exit
sign among this mass panic of busy words.  This is how we believe
we should be. But, what are we after the nonsense filters out.

Pandemic - a poem

COVID-19, a bit of sickly news that trickles out nicely
every time someone sneezes, and the Karen next to you wonders aloud
are they sick, will they give that to me, while she pesters
retail workers who have no pay for being dismissed, and bosses
who refuse to allow his workers to concentrate on health,
and do their part to avoid spreading viruses. Why she is out at all
if she be so paranoid of contracting a flu-sickness is beyond
any one else's comprehension.

COVID-19, college students compelled to return home, or to a house
though who can be sure what awaits them back there, and international
students trapped on foreign soil, unable to step foot on native land
because of lock downs and travel bans, and what awaits them as they
sit in a minimally run college campus land run by whats left of those
who haven't tucked tail and ran.

COVID-19, ill prepared for because ballooned, poorly tanned, "successful"
business man couldn't guarantee an amount of money for disease controllers
to combat, and have preparedness. Tossing about his responsibilities as a political
football, and failing to catching, continuously fumbling, and shaking hands
with stricken leaders, and we all wonder is this what might take down a world
leader, and an election cycle coming to an end, and trash keeps trashing
the world.

COVID-19, cancel sporting events, cancel live studio audiences, diminish gatherings,
close down everything, so that medical personell are not overwhelmed, for they are
overwhelmed, and most susceptible to contracting a virus, and we wait, with nothing
to distract us besides our familiar shows on television, what will come next,
for we expect some worse behavior as people begin to panic and judge eachother
because of race, and the curious case of coughing.

COVID-19, afflicting fatally the elderly and immune-deficiency populations,
so that smart ass so and so's can claim its okay for them to parade around in the streets,
and drink, and party, and stick tongues down each others throats, not considering
what their lack of common sense can cost someone a few doors down, or a collection
of someones half way around the world. Yes, we will survive this, but be smart,
be clean, be conscious of the rest of us, be best selves, in worst case
scenarios.

Nonsense Lyrics - a poem

i wonder aloud, silently remarking to everyone of no consequences, that my existence
is plagued with a mind that wanders back and forth over hot coals, and topics befitting
family quarrel. when the sum of the parts are added for the sake of enormous multiplying
effects. as the whispers heard on school playgrounds, by bullies shouting at others like me
and so I keep it turned up too high, the heating system, the way sweat drips to pools at my feet
because nervousness is as accustomed to be as breathing.

I wonder aloud, oblivious to the fact, only sometimes, that I am completely fine and am not contributing
anything terribly obvious to the detriments of mankind. yet, I cannot breathe properly without
inhaling a magnitude of worrying vapors that leak out of drainage ditches lined with sewage
waters. that is to say, in a way, away from this place, that I am ultimately, in a sense, a sensual
being determined to breathe freshly into the fabrics of my clothing, like pores opened in skin
that dribble and plop down in beads upon sandy beaches. making no sense is part of the prognosis for the drained.

but lo and behold before me, angel gowned in miracles, and i am light footed as I prance upon the graves of my skeletons that are freshly uncrowded from my closet, and unearthed never again,
but exposed so that heavenly body can see what holes possessed. Yet, ethereal spirituality gives me a contact high, and makes the goose pimples of my flesh more prominent, and as they lay me down to sleep,
I make demands my soul they take.

Self-Defeating Prophecies - a poem

A compliment goes a long way to incite a rush of love to the brain,
but what do you do when you can't forgive yourself a moment
that transpired when you felt inferior for your compliments. That the things
touchstoned on your soul culminate in iterations of refusal,
that you are doomed to repeat your sins because the holy ghost
passed on you for doubting the air you breathe. Seem counter-intuitive

and is for the most part, but the battered shore does create opportunity
for the pecking of sea birds to collect and swallow down the gullet
and digest whole those things that are most sensitive to your disposition.
That desperate times and desperate measurements are taken on fragile
hands, and feet, and eyes, and toes, and as the millions of microscopic
bugs eat at rotting you are seldom safe from deceiving yourself

that you are a worth a moment of loving. Compliments are not a cure-all
for the insensitivity one has for oneself as past transgressions are gunshot
wounds that were never cleaned, and a bullet still fills your blood with poison.
So, storm clouds send lighting strikes to that metal garbage embedded in deep
tissue. Take the buses home, and dream of silently ending everything because
of the pain you continue to cause, but won't because you always want to believe
you can do better, but do you ever do better, and the sound of absolute silence
is more deafening than the pain of being who you are. So you take compliments

as comforting stuffed animals, like teddy bears, and her soft touch is a tourniquet
for your bloodied wound, but you still don't know if the rot on your mind will ever
clear up, no matter how hard you try, and you know it is good for writing out willfully
all those wistful and painful things you can think of, but what is it about good times
that makes you fear more than they will come to an end, and bad times will replace
them like storm clouds encroaching on a vacation intended for sun. When walks in rainy
streets is paramount for clearing the screaming in your head that you are not enough

for the compliments that are paid you. Talent is something that you have, but is it
worth all the times you've caused tears to flow out of eyeballs, and do you have it in you
to be better, and not stuck, for you are always stuck in an ebb and flow of tide pools,
its okay to feel scared, but when you are constantly scared do they think that it is
how you will always be. God said let their be light, but he meant it for the sun,
and it was so, but not for the human soul, as Eve bit pit deep into forbidden fruits
and so doomed the human race into this dark role, but even if its not believed so,

the stickiness like gum under a dinner table surface is there branded on your soul,
and at some point you blame and blame and blame your fractured brain for being lost
to anger issues, and anguish issues, and absolution issues, because you cannot absolve yourself
and your writing is begotten as this constant war to come to terms of who you were,
who you are, what you want to be, and what you never got to be, regretting and regurgitating
the last sensible thing you thought you knew. And as mother bird feeds baby spit up
cornmeal so goes that I continue to speak aloud the curses that were spoken on me,

but I try, with help of loves, and help of medial sciences for psychological relief,
and my soul wants to cry for who knows better what I have been through and how hard
it is not to feel inadequacy fester inside that bullet hole, self-inflicted, and demanding
an answer to how to be better, and always striving to be better, even with broken legs,
and fractured fingers, and lost direction, the climb is treacherous, the climb is steep,

the pool at the bottom is littered with sharks already high on the taste of your blood
but you persist because of the way she smiles at you, and you know you are okay, you are
better than the sum of your mistakes, and you believe her when she says your worth it,
and you believe her when she says forever, and forever, and forever,

but you also know you hate to see her cry,
and maybe you can never full forgive yourself
for the mistakes of hurt and anger cast upon myself
but seldom does someone look at you with wholeness
the way that she looks at you wholly.

in effect, to sum it up,
breathe deeply,
and forgive yourself,
because you are not the sum
what was learned,
and you can become a sum
of something,

something that resembles calmness, even as storms rage, for even a hurricane has an eye.

Romantic Gestures - a poem

What is it about a kiss on back of hands that sends soul into feelings of placidity,
that solace that no one else is capable to give with even best self-help guides that are in existence
by the most award winning authors. It is a mystery wrapped in enigmas that hearts
can be calmed when lips touch just below knuckles of a hand, while driving, while sitting,
while laying down on a bed snuggled up and hoping that tomorrow delivers this same
assured way that happiness can exist in simplest of gestures. Where momentary
ideals are seen to expand towards infinity as though on wings of falcons that swoop
and dive to rhythms of sea breezes among other fowl that paints skies with muted movements
of wings. How time seems to erase tension that encroaches upon hearts just because a loves
lips have sought a connection with back of palm.

It is in that way that a thumb rubbed against back of hand that offers a comforter
of security, heavy for warmth, but not persistent in a way that pushes down feet into quick sanded
beaches, where suffocation is imminent. No feelings are wonders, as their digits touch
flesh of fingers, in little circular rotations, as much as what a finger is capable of producing.
There is a security in having a hand taken in a hand, that solidifying of human to human
connection, especially when distance keeps souls and hearts apart, and only words are fit
to print, and no amount of wanting will create a feeling of pressured fingers. As their thumb
makes massages on your hand, how is it that simplest of frequented gestures might
cease screaming tears that are fabric of panic attacks that create anxiety ridden fuel for worrying
minds. For truth is often that simplest gestures are carriers of significant weight.

And then to return back to those feelings of lips, but on facial structures where bones set out
placement for cheeks that they say are sweet, and kissable, and then rewarded with loud
and continuous loving upon them. How chubbiness is pushed in, displaced when their face
is pressed inward, and a smack of lips heard about, unabashedly, unashamed of what someone
might see or hear because they are proud to be loving on you. They are building their budding
affections, and showing a uninterested public that heart feels fully, truthfully, not in worrying
fashions that they should be ashamed of showing it. And you stand full smiled, and heart skipping
rope to beats that pulse with latest love song tempos because every chorus of angels is in their
voice, in that wet sound lips make when they kiss upon cheek. When they tell you you are beautiful
because you are not sure you heard that before from another human being, and you might take a chance to tell yourself that this is true. That you are beautiful,

and they are beautiful for saying so.

Third Grade Rejection - a poem

I was in third grade when I confessed my love for a fellow classmate.
This was a mistake that I would apologize for when my classmate,
whose named started with H decided this news was fit for divulging
a number of tears. She streamed them down her cheeks, and gave
to teacher the news of her distress. That I a young boy in the third grade
had admitted to having a crush on her. I apologized profusely to this
news. I had to apologize for having any feelings at all, and I suppose
that continues on to this day, though not as bad as ever. Back then though
standing in our line-up to go indoors, talking to my close knit friends,
one of them a cousin about my secret admiration for a girl my age,
in our grade, and in our class, overheard by another girl nearby,
who shouted it at the top of her lungs for all to hear. Maybe it was
that everyone heard that I, Aaron, was having childish romantic feelings
for someone, that resulted in Miss H having to pout and scream that I would
ever dare to feel them towards her. That it had become public knowledge.
But, maybe it was the start of the feeling of my own inadequacy's,
that I wasn't much of anything to feel anything for, and it would be awfully
terrible to date me. Not that dating was something that a third grader
really knew anything about, except as fake imitations of what they thought
dating was. For, certain peers of mine had paired off, became couples,
in the simplest form of the word, barely even holding hands, and never
even kissing, at least I assumed so. Just a status symbol being practiced
on the way to being an adult. However, me potentially wanting to be paired
with H was the horror story of someone else's narrative, and I perhaps
internalized the narrative that I was not much of a catch. Feelings of guilt
permeating through me, and apologizing that I felt anything at all. Giving
a false explanation that I only liked her as a friend, which was a flat out lie
from my young heart. This is not an answer to a riddle of who I am, only
an observation that I apologize a  lot for having feelings, and being me,
that I can't remember a time when I didn't. This is something to be worked on,
and to continue to pick at, and rewrite the story that I have internalized
of my own roles of inadequacy. And to forgive my third grade self for apologizing
for having feelings, just because someone else reacted unfavorably.