We strolled through the steam,
As it flowed from the sewer
A disgusting stream,
Made perfect from her hand in mine.

City dates are a decadence,
Rarely achievable by our kind.
So rare that the steam offers no offense.
It cannot ruin our bind.

My hands, they are persistent.
They reach for what they want.
Yet my mind remains inconsistent.
It wanders daily to new ideals.

One day I’m a saint, a lover.
The next my palms are hidden,
In a fist of rage, a fighter.
My hands remain persistent.

Perhaps it reflects my true self.
Shame ridden, and guilty of hate.
I reach for the top shelf.
My hands remain persistent.

That shelf holds what I need.
That shelf holds what I want.
My persistent hands grab with greed.
That Good Book that gives relief.

Created chaos calls for an ordained priest,
To bring order.
But he can’t, because he’s stuck at a feast.
Feeding his disorder.

A fire eats away a house like a snack,
A living Hell.
The firefighter, shell shocked, stands back.
Afraid of the smell.

The patient lays on the table bleeding,
Only seconds left.
The surgeon stands staring, hands shaking.
About to commit theft.

The priest puts down the fork.
The firefighter picks up the hose.
The surgeon takes a steady breath.

A man reads a story to get lost in it.
But what happens when he actually does?
No longer able to tell what is real.
His lamp let’s off a slight buzz.

The reality of society.
We think our lives are so boring,
So we read what others do for us.
Unable to hear the waters, outside our door roaring.

A teenage girl lays in bed watching videos.
She watches as Logan Paul,
Travel the country side of Japan,
She might as well stare at drywall.

Experience traded for convenience.

Green eyes sit in a green Toyota Camry.
His dad bought it when he was only three.
Now a cheap gift, worth more than the world.
He drives fast, hands on the wheel, furled.

His room was once his sanctuary.
Now more than ever, he is free.
Free from oppression of chores,
Free from the solitude of his locked doors.

Suddenly his universe has exploded,
His once feeble mind imploded.
Roads are no longer surrounding borders,
Now they follow his orders.

O, the simple freedom of having a car.

When I was a boy,
I saw a man with an eye patch.
I looked at mom and asked,
“Is that man a pirate?”

“No.” Said my mother,
Pirates are not real.
I needed to know, what was this man’s deal.
So I walked up and asked him.

“Are you a pirate?”
The man gave a boisterous laugh,
And slapped his knee, jiggling his calf.
“No my son, I am not a pirate.”

“Did you lose your eye in the war?”
The man let out a soft breath,
Perhaps he had seen, the commodity of death.
“No my son, I was not in the war.”

“I know what it is!
You didn’t wear safety glasses.”
Thinking back to my woods classes.
“No, boy.  I have never done the craft.”

I finally gave up.
“Well what was it then?”
With the wisdom of wise men,
The man replied-

“I never had my right eye.
It has never been there.
Life is not fair.
We do not all start equal.”

I suddenly felt a slight guilt.
I had overstayed my welcome,
Something I do seldom.
I apologized and shuffled away.

This man was used to the cruel words
Of young boys who mean nothing.
Their words are shallow, and forthcoming.
Even when they are not wanted.

Nonetheless, I learned something that day.
Life is not fair,
But I didn’t care.
Because for me, it was.

The lighting in the bar is,
Darker than the street.
People hide their faces,
As they shuffle their feet.

The drinks blur their vision,
Tell them lies about reality.
Until they wake up in prison.
Just for playing the game.

The prison of the head,
Is full of inmates, yet no guards.
You’d much sooner be dead,
Then feel the rattle of your cell.

As if you have an option.
The warden is not your mind but your tongue.
Between water and whiskey, you choose toxin.
By now, it’s habit.

This drug shoots through my body.
It makes my muscle movements, shoddy.
My skin itches, my bones tingle.
Yet this is completely legal.

I can’t go to the gym without it.
This concoction, I cannot quit.
It gives me strength and focus,
While making feel like a Crocus.

Slender and strong, yet weak.
Motivated, yet past my peak.
Looking back on the day when,
I was young and thin.

Caffeine is my nicotine.
Mixed with a little protein.

A deer gallops through the suburb.
Untouched, yet out of place.
She pants and smells every herb.
This is not her usual space.

The unfamiliar coddles her,
She feels almost safe in this cut and paste.
What to make of it, she is not sure.
She only knows she feels no haste.

There is no gunshots,
Only the sound of a falling pin
This place of still robots.
She does not fit in.

Melancholy is my state of mind.
In my mind mania is what you find.
On the outside I’m collected.
Organized and well connected.

I’m tall, yet built.
Forgiven, filled with guilt.
Fat, yet thin,
With very pale skin.

People seem to like me.
So why don’t I like me?
In the advertisement age,
I see what I should be,
On the front page.

We lie to ourselves to get by.
We say that we want to die.
Shouldn’t that be a clear sign of strife?
When our society would choose death over life.

Yet I understand.
The call of the void touches us all.
Death is not a blessing.
It is a curse.