But for a poem...

There are two poets inside of my being
neither of which are me
the first, my soul, I would love to take credit for
but before and after exists so free
the second, my demon, no longer mine
I release it to be wild, unhinged, rampant
-
this demon wishes not to write
but turn my body into a tablet
a walking example of what he is capable of
-
my soul also does not write but sings
sometimes low and slow no, no, no
onetimes loud and proud and yes, yes, yes
-
my body writes, usually poorly
left brain, fact brain, boring drain creative
but my heart, blood pumper, right brain really
is five fingers outstretched and empty
-
then interlacing is the hand of my soul
and but for a poem they hold hold hold
but that blood pumping fist can now reach out
grab a demon, my demon, the demon, down
throttle it's neck and squeeze out a sound
for a poem it sputters than is tossed to the side
-
I own you now demon, this reversal my pride
and soul runs so free, finally alone on my insides

Human Waste Basket

Dirt splashing spotless caskets
the most elegant human waste basket
black clothes cover happy people
still alive, believe in steeples
death is conquered except for your body
the faithless die not righteous or godly
give to the grave daily and nightly
voracious appetite, consuming politely
it's always them and then it's you
time is up, splash me too.

To Feel

He wanted to feel young so he looked in her eyes
he wanted to feel love he wanted to feel why
he had spent all those years, those fears and tears
he was spent and was spending
he lent a simple life
she returned his yearning look out of sorts
with a smile, just a tiny, one sided, while
with a twinkle and a bat, his whole person melted
a puddle all befuddled
he smiled back

stingerless wasp

what if you hurt yourself just to create
and your creation is poor and vacant
no art home, no home grown flow joe,
just tired and dead,
like a wasp without a stinger
i'm just a bug

Trendy

Addiction is so trendy
I cannot quit just yet
my sail when it is windy
I'll rest when I find death

Inchested

I have not sold my soul

I have not sold it whole

no thief borrowed or stole

no prisoner on parole

or crooked cop on patrole

not empty or full

no need to console

no surgeons bowl

or cave or natures hole

buried like a mole

inchested as i stroll

but dead, and lifeless

as i stroll

An upbeat little diddy about sinning

Those who choose to sin at night
or choice that chooses them
are well equipped for sin to fight
than heathens in A.M.
for morning sinners have much to lose
a day is all we're given
evening sinners fall then snooze
each day awake forgiven
for morning breeds more mourning
scorning through the sun
all day fight thoughts and luring
sins all day must shun
Christ chastised for sleeping
I hate myself for waking
deep trough of sin I'm drinking
my afterlife I'm staking