Same shit, different decade
forgetting kind compassion
still caught by hateful habit
of hurting people closest to us
No cause these temptations
to destroy and toss love's all
I'm remembering a firmness
mirroring gratefully humble
Poems
I adore my sister, I always have
will 'til I'm beneath green grass
I love my Sissy, oh forever shall
'twas true then yet still 'tis now
One more miracle 'tis really what we'll need
singularly rare, a phenomenal wonder freed
here inside us, portent poet Poe's been seen
glum literary marveling hope in every being
Since before, as in Neanderthal's feelings
pre-men imbedding pre-women's wombs,
when offspring became more than a drop
birthing an age of our unconditional love.
And when our miracle went,
long in anticipated awaiting
tears of pure, ecstatic loving
called up from bosom's deep
On the other side of disrespect
at old habits judgmental hedge
sits our eternally unwell family
stuck in sad and gloomy wedge
I wonder how this health of me
became played within bad mire
but here 'pon knowing I'm okay
I now release my baggage pyre!
Starting over freshly seeded in Earth
rising up to the fruitiness's epitomai
all 'tis new here 'pon our weariness's,
everything old now's withering away
Thomas Harris wrote The Silence of the Lambs
but the author's not a cannibalistic serial killer
and Edgar Allen Poe penned The Telltale Heart
yet wasn't that gone crazy, homicidal murderer
Stephen King champions slaughtered fantasies
however, tends no real-life, Jack Torrance signs
In the bipolar depths of melancholic depression,
where murky waters meet with ran out of breath
one comes to wonder how much worse it can get
and what difference does it make if I fail the test
The subtraction's huge says wise man up the hill
once sees faces of humans dead asleep 'pon a slab
others grand in contrast doing rejoicing aerobics
breathing in to remember living hopes I yet have
Once we're beyond the veil
this game's no longer afoot
so lay every duck 'pon rows
nice basket all our eggs put
The natives are restless and hungry,
in ghettos propped up by an illusion
99% of 100% but that math's chaotic
<greater than lesser than confusing>
reality stars with converse delusions
slow and steady, like lions crouching
low and inching forward to homicide
