If you really want to hear about it
I'll tell you, but then again
You wouldn't listen, no one ever does.
Even you already have an answer
before I finish, but then again, who cares
I'm done listening to you.
If you really want to know about it
I'm done talking, there's no more to say
on the matter, any matter for that matter.
It no longer matters but if you really want
to hear about it, I'll tell you. Then again
maybe not, if you really want to know.

Everybody's perfect

Well, nobody's perfect.
sighed in resignation,
spoken in rationalization,
shouted in indignation,
epitah to a fucked up nation

Truth be told, who said we were?
Look in the mirror, what's there
a perfect image of imperfect me,
a flawed reflection of perfect experience,
predjudiced by choices, culture and family.

How can there be perfection in a Universe that
changes with the beat of a Humming birds wing.
I created myself and I am what I am. That's as perfect,
as it will ever be.

Vision

I had a vision once
only once, of Death.
Not Death, but Ego dying.
Upon dying, I was reborn.
Just reborn, without attachment.
Death of attachment to attachment.

Awareness that I was awake.
fully awake, finally fully free.
pain free, no longer depressed.
Aware of my depreesion, but not attached.
No longer attached to my attachment.
Was my vision Real?

3WW

Earnest
Layer
Reactive

Should I stay or should I Go.
So many complex emotions
layer upon layer, reactive
To the slightest nuance or
Benign word well intended.
She tries in earnest, still
Will love not fade away, away
From the burden day by day.

I'm not one for sentimental endings

Gone gone gone, gone
To find herself she said.
I didn't know that she
was lost. I was too content
to see the signposts
passing bye.

A farewell letter handwritten
in her florished script,
Purple perfumed ink,
How could something so distasteful
smell so sweet.

It was not you, but me.
I love you, but I must go.
You are too good for the likes of me,
someday we may meet again,
Who knows what fate will bring.

A mind so muddied that
Thought and reason fail to meet
All I know is that your gone.
I'm not one for sentimental
endings. Not this time.

Valentine

Valentine indeed!

The name suits her,
money-minded whore.
What right has she
to be happier then me?

He'll be sorry soon enough.
Bitter chocolate covered,
poisoned hard candied, heart.
Smiling hand holding tart.


Her smile so sweet, her soul is
iced cold steel, and rough.
His innocence she will soon impale;
Her heart's a hammer, every male's a nail.

Full Time

This poem was first conceived when the last man who played football during the Christmas Truce(1914) passed away in 2005.The first two lines were written by a friend JayCee as an idea for a poem. I filled in the rest using her prompt. I was imagining that all those who participated in the famous football game that took place between the trenches on Christmas day were waiting in the afterlife for the last man to join them so they could resume the game again.

Full time is called at last
The final player is no more.
All the ghosts of no man's land
Will celebrate the final score.
The last man leaves his mortal
Shell to walk on heavens shore,
Where old friends and former foe
Wait to play the game once more.

The field is ruled with poppies red,
The ball as golden as the sun.
Death's ditch is lined with eidleweiss
And Angels sing, The New Jerusalem,
To celebrate that glorius day
When they layed down bayonet and gun,
And ran upon a no man's land
To play once more for fun.