I think sitting down with good intentions,
to write poetry about anything or nothing
'tis our worthwhile Homo-sapiens pursuit
Verses may have no meaning whatsoever,
and convey powerful or harmful emotions
but human art 'tis the mystical taking root
Poems
I'd planned on murdering Tucker Carlson,
when he'd gone to the store all by himself
for what reason each and every Thursday,
he lone shopped while restocking shelves
Shadowing him right over to lunch meats,
a monkey wrench got thrown in my plans
here came face to face with Sean Hannity!
so, I man-slaughtered instead the big ham
Glancing over I saw Carlson's near coolers,
transferring two one-gallon sweet tea jugs
he's staring straight at me and drops them,
so, I shoot him too with the leftover's slugs
Needless to say I won't make it outta there,
off-duty cops in the pickle's aisle had been
no time remaining for reloading any gusto,
so, my blood flows like sweet tea's revenge
Be the black sheep
True to your color
The odd sad man out
Through time interstellar
Praise the black sheep
Loved but forgotten
One blip of quick time
Living large but not rotten
They're like us, don't you know
In a less crazy way
Lost in life, on their own
In that large living way
Let them go, wish them well
That's just how the wheels turn
We had nothing to tell
And so much more to learn
Quite certain if I won millions in a state's lottery,
then you'd take some interest in talking with me
And isn't good enough it appears sending poetry,
which leads to a bad social reflection, apparently
When I sent you an email written in poem form,
'twas me communicating in thoughts about you
although not directly did I ask how you're doing,
I believed it's mention less my reach out 'tis true
When uncles send poems to nephew and nieces
I'd think you could ask yourself what would I do
to be in my sixties and still sending out limerick
while siblings' kids don't seem to care about you
One more poem, one more breath
One more sip of cream and honey
Then the pain, thoughts of death
I just hope the place is sunny
The odds of being born as human me
are about four-hundred trillion to one
Chance of having one human orgasm
becomes zero once lifetimes are done
Still here
Alive
Awake
Breathing
fresh air
Still here
Heads-up
Honed in
Feeling
aware
Still here
Alert
Anew
Snappy
drum snare
Still here
Long-lived
Washed-out
Beat-up
old bear
I peered into the mirror and eyed my corpse,
the skull resembled Pirates of the Caribbean
I reflected 'pon landscapes of my own doom,
small wonder somewhere tropically themed
When an end 'tis near and the energy's gone,
we're not able to even lift one scrawny finger
no more filling our bellies or rubbing one out,
yes, only penned sonnets forever shall linger
