1.
Sirens blaring,
Helicopters overhead.
The rain pours, in its delusions of eloquence.
Evil is chasing me, in its unrelenting pursuits, to end this
Poem before it begins.
This poem, in the nights dawn,
Born prematurely will fail its purpose.
Wicked weevil, the briefest indulge-ment in seasonal pleasure.
Rotating bodies, confused by sound.
Human mythology, urban folklore
Light shown in dark, image exposed
Standing as jokers
Court gesture logic
Sick field of cosmic,
From school yards to college.
Primitive man and his civilized knowledge.
Systems collapse, playing blind men, and still will not
Acknowledge.
Global economy in it for self.
Sirens blaring,
Helicopters overhead.
The rain pours, in its delusions of eloquence.
Evil is chasing me, in its unrelenting pursuits, to end this
Poem before it begins.
This poem, in the nights dawn,
Born prematurely will fail its purpose.
Wicked weevil, the briefest indulge-ment in seasonal pleasure.
Rotating bodies, confused by sound.
Human mythology, urban folklore
Light shown in dark, image exposed
Standing as jokers
Court gesture logic
Sick field of cosmic,
From school yards to college.
Primitive man and his civilized knowledge.
Systems collapse, playing blind men, and still will not
Acknowledge.
Global economy in it for self.
2.
Set bound for more mythical tale
It’s the mind that they chose
Being taught designs to stay close.
Words to a failed songs,
Hearts made to be weak.
Depth perception.
Crowned holiday.
A gossip of wind. An accident never occurring,
A tongue dipped in the unvarnished truth, of this poem.
But yet still it will fail.
Sheet music of the winds.
Natures sublime wander lines.
Fine words and insinuating appearance are seldom associated with
Its virtue.
This poem makes no sense.
This poem makes perfect sense.
It is a politician.
A Minster, to a congregation of none.
A klans-men celebrating black history 366 days.
Enthusiastic,
This poem is HIV/AIDS.
Sexual and disrespectful.
Set bound for more mythical tale
It’s the mind that they chose
Being taught designs to stay close.
Words to a failed songs,
Hearts made to be weak.
Depth perception.
Crowned holiday.
A gossip of wind. An accident never occurring,
A tongue dipped in the unvarnished truth, of this poem.
But yet still it will fail.
Sheet music of the winds.
Natures sublime wander lines.
Fine words and insinuating appearance are seldom associated with
Its virtue.
This poem makes no sense.
This poem makes perfect sense.
It is a politician.
A Minster, to a congregation of none.
A klans-men celebrating black history 366 days.
Enthusiastic,
This poem is HIV/AIDS.
Sexual and disrespectful.
2.
A hymn, within the testaments.
This poem will end at once upon a time.
And begin living happily ever after.
It has found the cure to reality.
A constitution of circumstance,
Generosity of soy-earnestness and sincerity.
In the foot-steps of Marco polo.
It seeks to find its enemy and his enemy and shake both their
Hands. A villain. A victim. A voice. A secret.
A crazy calm, soft, warm, almost weightless.
This poem is within spectrum.
This poem is a fierce urgency of now.
This poem is a whisper of a gunshot.
Failing its purpose, this poem is failing its poet.
Failing as it is being written, as being read, as we speck.
This poem is poignant, prolific, generational.
This poem is bullshit, a copycat.
Wants to be famous.
This poem is putting a stop to this poem.
This poem is revealing too much.
It has no point.
It is repeating words found on the yellow brick road.
This poem hates it’s poet.
Its failing its poet.
There is much representation for peace in this poem.
This poem shivers for what is to come.
Sirens blaring,
Helicopters overhead,
The rain pours in its delusions of eloquence.
Evil is chasing me, in its unrelenting pursuits, to end this poem
Before it begins.
Once upon a time . . . . .
There was this poem!!
A hymn, within the testaments.
This poem will end at once upon a time.
And begin living happily ever after.
It has found the cure to reality.
A constitution of circumstance,
Generosity of soy-earnestness and sincerity.
In the foot-steps of Marco polo.
It seeks to find its enemy and his enemy and shake both their
Hands. A villain. A victim. A voice. A secret.
A crazy calm, soft, warm, almost weightless.
This poem is within spectrum.
This poem is a fierce urgency of now.
This poem is a whisper of a gunshot.
Failing its purpose, this poem is failing its poet.
Failing as it is being written, as being read, as we speck.
This poem is poignant, prolific, generational.
This poem is bullshit, a copycat.
Wants to be famous.
This poem is putting a stop to this poem.
This poem is revealing too much.
It has no point.
It is repeating words found on the yellow brick road.
This poem hates it’s poet.
Its failing its poet.
There is much representation for peace in this poem.
This poem shivers for what is to come.
Sirens blaring,
Helicopters overhead,
The rain pours in its delusions of eloquence.
Evil is chasing me, in its unrelenting pursuits, to end this poem
Before it begins.
Once upon a time . . . . .
There was this poem!!
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