Nameless, Faceless Fucks!

The world is filled
with so many people
who are true to nothing
especially themselves.

the who-whats and
when-wheres that cruise
from crisis to crisis
pointless and all,
never stopping
to smell the fresh morning
roses or look into
the mirror and create
their thousand truths
their goods
their evils
and destroy them with
every night.

Yes, we march and
march and march
to someone else's
someone else's

These people resign from
they retire, before ever
experiencing what life really
has to offer
for these people I
have no words,
for they have already given up
on themselves.
But for you,
young poet - young reader
or boxer, or lawyer
I can only give you
my blessings
for in your hands is the fate
of this filthy race
we call

Live your life fully
and each day like your
look away from
the preachers
of death,
There's beauty in the struggle.

My Golden Crutch

I want to pause the poetry to take a second to reflect on my self and my own growth and downfall over the past few years and more importantly the past few days.

I was always a restless soul, even before I met laura. Always concerned, or overconcerned about my identity, my place in this broken puzzle I came to call the world. Always searching fort he answer, I found myself trying new things. I was never satisfied with what I had so I kept searching for the next distraction, the next platform to take my chance with life and learn something new.
Rollerblading, BMX Biking, skateboarding, band football, philosophy, and debate
it was all the same.
another crutch, another quick fix another shot of existence that made me feel warm inside - Like morphine on a winter night. My passion was living and my canvas was life. And now, only now have I found my true freedom, my calling my skill and my destiny.
and my paintbrush, most of all
for now there is life in all of my writing
poetry has set me free
from my worthlessness
for now I write with my blood!
instead of etching with pointless utencils
--the most impersonal of all expressions.

I do not think I could appreciate
anything more than I do now.
A cold winter night,
a warm cup of joe
and a pen with which I write
my own

"now do I fly
now am I light
now ther danceth a god in me!"

Beautiful Stranger

There is a woman
who sits across the pond
from me now
golden brown skin
and lustrous black hair
she's in her
mid twenties,
she looks like a marry or
a monica or a lisa
and she carries a black camera
with her wherever she goes
snapping pictures of her young glory
she sits atop a rock
and calls to her young warrior-
"antale chico!"
and I think
maybe she's more
of a maria, or gabriella!

either way she's beautiful
and so is her daughter of three.
or four, but certainly no more
and there's comfort in the fact
that she'll never read
much less,
that she made
my fucking

39 Cents of Gold

It seems like today,
everybody wants all the
best shit
sports cars with the leather interior,
gormet lobsters served
(on top of) $70 Salisbury Steak
Private pre-schools and
even more exclusive colleges
the most expensive whiskey
foreign cigarettes
and homes that sit atop
hills of (black)gold
with a million
and one

Those people are lost
and incapable of making decisions
not calculable in
dollar bills:
Fuck Them.

Little do they know
about life,
about living
about schwag on a sunday morning
or $4 champagne or Marlborough Red's
let them have their expensive ass cake
and eat it too
while you sit on your hill
that looks like all the others
appreciating the finer things
life has to offer.

I bought a nice journal
or stole it, or something.
and not a single beautiful poem,
or thought, or dream
came out
there was just too much
pressure to be perfect
it weighed down my writing hand

but only now do I know:

that I have never been
happier with my 39 cent
that perhaps,
we define the
finer things in life
for ourselves.

Fuck the Big Other.

write like your sanity depends on it

I absolutely love the idea of using poetry
as an outlet. like I've always said-
"it's good to get all the crazy out of your system"

without further ado,
"a frustrated tirade"

God damn I feel so fucking worthless
worthless worthless
my stomach hurts and so does my
it's all broken, fried, mishandeled, and
like that bitter whore on the corner
these moments of sheer lack
of creativity
of escape
of death
of every part of me that makes me,
make me want to die die die
I do not know who I am
I do not know who you are
or who any of these people are
for that matter
we're all just faceless, nameless
fighting with each other
for a little piece of
american pie.

shit, fuck the gold, fuck the glory
and fuck god for that matter,
I just need a stranger
a friend
a lover and
a poet
to stand here with me
and watch this city burn
like the fire that rages
inside me.

Mundane Morning

7:00 Sharp
and not a moment later
is when the morning starts
when that alarm goes off ringin'
and the sounds of Mufasa,
our departed king
permeate the air.
of course,
that's also when
the war starts

between me,
and myself
the subconceous
and the real

it's fierce combat, really
-when the world wants you
to do something
you feel anxious,
surrounded; afraid
and under the pressure
of the whole fucking
like the nazis
in the final hours
of 1946.

sure, i manage
to hold on a little longer
fifteen, thirty sometimes

depending on how many times
I hit that
snooze button
but that doesn't stop
the morning air
from receiving my presence.

I wake up,
and stare upon this fucking
world I feel,
I can never love
my stomach - restless
from last nights
cigarette and coffee

then I wonder,
as I take my first sip
of morning joe
and my first sip of
"why did I even
bother waking up
on this god fucksaken
mundane morning?"

but there is never an answer
I guess every morning
is a mundane morning
without a god in the sky
or an angels face to
wake up to.
maybe she could
show me

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