Note

I apologize for the recent
inundation of bad poetry that is
positively dripping with 
teenage angst and weird imagery.

I am uninspired
at this moment and 
Grasping
at thin filaments.

Hopefully I will come up with better things 
Soon. 
Thanks for reading,
and may things be going better for you.

Bad Poetry No.2

A puerile plea,
into the void of the ages,
misundestood and misplaced,
identity left to fester,
maligned on the open seas.

Confused in the confusion,
lost in the dissolution,
words strung like christmas lights,
guides in the winter nights,
promising that stars will shoot across the sky
and lead us to hope.

Swimming against stranger tides,
sickness and health merge with time,
no normal place to hide when nothing,
is average anymore,
something striking behind each door,
that can strike you down or with the bolt of an idea.
a desperate snatch of Elysium.

Candles and clay lamps,
stories and sentiments hand in hand,
share the window in the cold and dark.
point of faith in something we are not.
that things get better with time,
only by the hands of the divine.

Wail like the wind on white sheets,
black ink spilling or typed into being,
a cry devoid of any sound,
still changing the world as it spins around.
Hologram humanity in the model solar system.
How are we in some perfect image,
if real humanitarians and saints,
 are more unsure than anything human words create?

Bad Poetry No.1

Words that rhyme,
are overdone.
Overwrought and overused,
until they are faded rags flapping in the wind,
unseen beacons,
clamoring for someone's attention.

Even washed and wrung out,
as the meaning trickles down the drain,
they are recycled and reused,
the limits of language at the edge of our creative efforts.
still tinged with despair and desperation.

Whimsy

I cannot be made to write poetry,
For words, like birds, sound best when free.