Here’s a fairly random slice of my poetry that I’ve decided to sprinkle onto the inner webs.
Please enjoy it immensely and do not steal it because that would just be beyond tragic.
Thanks,
Cosmo the Poet
My Venmo is [cosmodionysus] for donation purposes.


Altered Reality—
Tattered but not fully torn, worn but not quite comfortable.
Affordable assurance being spent until ruin.
Confidently coddled, a crumbled and busted pile of plastic existence.
As if living hard needed a soft death to properly feel adequate.
I stand behind stanzas that rarely rhyme, for that level of serendipity serves no purpose in a world warped by perpetual turmoil.
Our timing scarcely fits a filtered version of our imagination, as our true intentions often remains buried in blood-stained sand.
I fit in nowhere;
staring into the swollen sun—until I’m blind
staggering into the fallen shadows—I find myself lost.
Tossed into a blended nothing. Clinging to the emptiness of it all
and everything cleverly becomes a blank stare into this altered reality.
That fantastic fantasy our desires ignite.
My intentions billow from the darkest delight.
As all this fades to a shaded memory, every second becomes a prism of a falsified security.
It’s a hopeful dreamland dance we’ll rarely ever consume.

The Magic in a Tragedy—
One last gasp from the poet court jester; he’s a seer and simply hilarious
what a wonderful waste, the most tragic infraction to ever grasp the throat
Coat every desire with lust and encrust it all in shame
the wild pursuit of unrequited love has become a game
Tamed versions of incursions once spoke beauty to word
Enflamed dances embrace a flame’s fanatic pull inward 
towards a place neither pain or pleasure ever meant to reside
The insides of a decision rarely reflect the pulpy exterior of the chances we take.
Mistakes become breaks we inflect the rejection into momentarily magic we make
Glances and spans of times become subtle reminders: 
the hours are long—the years are short. Life is just about right—Goldilocks zone
Never a notion of notches, my lovers remain forever in my charred heart
Altered planes of existence seem the dreamy scene to script those lores of raising an army of peace with my angel of destiny—the fairytale only rhymes with the decaying time we’ve wasted in various phases in different places with faces turned to stone by the age of loneliness. 
When one selects Statue— they’re no longer flexible enough to join society. 
They’ve opted out with their heart, soul, and spirit in a fashion the normal will never recognize. 
The disguise, fashioned from years of sheltering the truth from everyone to anyone with no one ever allowed a sip until each other’s skin felt the caresses of longing the carcass continues to grow hungrier for—
—for as thirsty as the population remains, the idea of relaxing in satisfaction remains forbidden. 
That silly war on comfort— It was never a role I took lightly.
Forever branded a warrior of the late night…a devout hippy also seemed fit.
Fortunately we’re dragged across the concept of existence for far too long to give up so easily. Only some of us win that battle. 
Awakening in a glistening battlefield or wasteland—depending on which musical reference was selected—my reward pierces through like a swollen beam of sunlight needing to be felt… The time hasn’t run out

Kaleidoscope of Hope—
Flickers of speckled light, refracting from the reactions of the anxious, dances brilliantly from the ceiling down the back of seduction. 
Tours of all this entails includes the hopeless expanse of the mind. 
Calculated destinations rarely discovered remain the last reminder in a series of reruns. 
Under the influence of attraction, the reaction of being strangled begins feeling like a softer embrace. 
Faced with a foreign portrait, all tracing of true intentions
remains the shading between a smile and frown
And as the laugh finds shape inside a tear, 
a faint way of manipulation tears at the fabric sewed so patiently.
No time for recapturing lost fears.
They were once part of a survival blanket that warmed the disbelief in truth.
Along the way, everything sacred finds solace in bending back for the recourse. 
Of course, all is dead when instead of nurturing growth, the focus drips past all focal points.
Sharp edges of the invisible wall, closing in on a blank statement, creates a prison for two.
To the countless rehashing of actions
to the numbered ashes related to joint satisfaction, 
the charred remains of what once startled our intentions, 
now clouds each remainder leftover after the rush.
It’s all a calculated risk, one without benefit or guarantee—but lush with obstacles estranged. 
Rearrange the range which includes each desire and doubt, 
the grayscale accumulation makes one a believer or failure. 
Anywhere along this self-inflicted path, our present moments masquerades itself against being recognized. Disguises in vague dialogue becomes the outfit we affix to all comprehension. 
Tattered rags flutter against a lonely skin,
painted by the chance to get fully entranced. 
Into one another’s arms, two can find sovereignty in the allure of what lures our cares away.
No dungeon left to pick thru bones, 
no escape when the shackles are created by the imagination. 
There’s barely enough time left to recount where reality turned on us.
Overturned by the senseless shapes we mistake as getting turned on. 
Us was never a concept pronounceable to a passerby with a dream.
It seems like we all forsake the warning signs aligned to finding what binds the wicked. 
Cautionary tales rarely fail us at being swollen by envy.
All that retell the glory, first explore the adorable pull of what ails the sickened.
Thickened by a gritty grin, I’ve faced an edifice in the relationship between time and pleasure,
no amount of nodding drives the head further from where all pain is an anecdote in itself.        
The cure is on hand, if only the reality of the situation mirrored it’s awe.
Forever stoned by the lunacy of the law, a rock pile remembered wrong becomes a home.
And the scope of this decision, spins slices of a kaleidoscope across the eye.
Identity is transformed into an illusion by the daze of interpretation.   

An Untitled Mess— [a parcel of the mind’s path]
"The affliction of proving oneself constantly
with an addiction to uncover meaning along the path becomes it’s own journey—
an infliction of a painful improvement of oneself and the world.
We’re constantly berated with nonstop stimuli and conditioned to subtly nurture a concept of our surroundings. Armed with the knowledge and wisdom we accrue, we’re forced to perpetuate a false seduction of happiness. Steer clear of a wasteful deduction in energy from letdowns.
And resurrect a more correct path into a future that’s crumbling by every new day lived.
Forewarned of looking back at a past that cast us into the light
we now consider the present,
our every action becomes the traction in which these steps take us into a narrowing tunnel of our demise.
Wise seers count the blessings of idle moments.
Simple pleasures become our own prison of stagnant smiles.
An endless march across the deserted sadness of loneliness insists on being a frame in which we measure our success.
Impressed less by the folding of identical identities it’s now a race to subdue our subconscious and trick our senses.
Spending this existence formulating all that makes humans relate
has transformed me from a participating jester of glee into a haunted soul, indulgent of every ounce of awkward misery.
Feeding this to a crazed section of an imagination becomes the final fantasy in a falsified reality.
And nothing means less than wallowing in the eternal bliss of darkness."

A honey moon eclipsed—
Sweet to the taste,
a constant drip from the tip of my lip
to the fading glow of your yearning mouth—
A fairytale playground I once surrounded myself with
a blanket draped across two naked bodies strive to bring each other alive.
No death or mourning for our faintest morning intertwined 
finds us blinded of a future left to die
A fantasy desire remains the final fire
an ember of an amber glow flows across a lost sense of belonging
A longing remains for far too long
and that swan song begs to be stroked and plucked till every feather
severs a swollen sense of solitude in tune to a collective thirst
From the first evening we spent talking long into our first touch
of skin beginning to hunger years later after our final chapter ended
We send mind-bending admissions granting the seduction of permission
—subtle submissions spawning sentences meant to undress temptation
Perhaps a dream deferred remains our sole entrance into each other’s souls
I cease to control the ability to release my need to feed you my every ounce of prose.
 I know a proposal to pull tears of happiness from you
strung along with waves of orgasms makes my own loneliness spasm. 
We’re forever linked and bound by a shared love
No distance or circumstance shall ever change that fact….
Regardless if our paths never splash together for a reflection of the past—
I trace the space between the lace and your most sacred places
along the photograph sent—
Daydreaming of dancing upon every inch of your curves
and binding the bridge between what I long to do to you for hours
and the weeks spent second guessing how months ago we nearly folded back a connection we spent years to conceive and give birth to a strange shared glare of a future to last eons.
Our eternity is the truest forever I’ll ever need
In another existence we feed that beast of a wandering eye—
to unlock a passage of shared passions, interlock ourselves in waves of moments 
as sheets become the ocean we sail across each other as deep and long as the night allows the sunrise to frame us in an exhausted heap of devoured intentions.
Sweet dreams sweet royal moon, 
may we someday drink from the wishing well of another session together—

Light portions of a poem from 2017—
A cascading casualty in any spinning dose of bliss is the silence,
assisting one’s worries with an ample amount of allowable chatter. 
Faced down in the heat of an ancient moment. 
Swollen with stillness like a statue’s gaze, faced with the braille appeal of a turned head.
In and out of the strangest dream, a circling buzzard of sleep, the path is carved from chaos. 
Calculating sensations, related only to a foreshadowing vail of uncertainty.
Though, death and destruction seem like distant cries in a curved reality.
Our lone survival nibbles on the link we’ve created, 
and the chains that bind us were fashioned from past mistakes and splendor. 
Slender seconds bisect the confusion from understanding, 
where the only land left for sturdy footing is a memory of that harbor we departed from.
The lighthouses and anchors collect moss as a battle cry from being abandoned. 
Safety and security rarely accompany the desperate. 
All sense of fairytale pales in comparison to the intricate fittings of a proper connection. 
Cast away and left behind, subtle solutions to problems yet to be uncovered
only makes sense with the meaning is stripped from the purpose.

Daisy Chained—
Swept into a current, jolting my every sense with an intense volt of a sensation. 
A later tense being used for the endless piece of living that killed all dictation. 
Only countless whispers can describe the vibe now found. 
Surrounded by each day we’d make a prisoner of our war
Two castaways get swept away under a crass mirrored glance of hopeless romance
Giggles and innocence slowly crept to a canvas ceiling of cigarette smoke and a dance
 When a dream is awoken by chance, no degree of understanding cures her haunting aroma  
It gently flickers against every notion of a bad idea, sparking kindling of potential inside a coma
 After all was once lost
  Perhaps till the end, which is where a joint chasm is crossed while holding hands like children
   Adult decisions stuffed into adolescent fantasies, mid-life desire siring a host of costly dreams
      Fears have been anointed adoption papers since the reckless attraction weathers me
      A withering mess, shivering in the night, stumbling in the snow, tears frozen to mock me
      Gleaming in the corner of all ideas are two jokers attempting to sabotage every glazed day
    Nightmares replace daydreams and suddenly, all momentum reminds one of time-traveling   
    Nothing else is permitted to fall into order when the decision is cast in the shadows of love
    Never has a race meant everything and nothing, where the winner progresses the least
    Most of all— this isn’t the right path - not for either racer, not at this second
    Least of all— we both understand the painful sadness within the rhyming scheme of that truth
That which is a fact, acts as if the barrier is a wealthy man’s villa painted inside the barrio  
A home that secures the staggering dilemma of being wanted and forbidden at the same time.
Time has been the greatest villain in our story, wafting around a corner coined to be…
…the mold meant to fit both our intentions and wishes.
                                 Our better versions await discovery
Planned perfection is against the law, 
a more intense connection infused by hopeful nirvana is near.
Forever was never meant to exist because forever never finds the ending of anything. 
No more sails sent full-scale to uncover the deepness of nothing
When given everything, there’s something more troubling
Finding what heals the heart under a collection of tears
Sound found in the hymn of silence, absent of masked misunderstandings
and if this story is destined to choke inside the vein of a vine
crush the soul, percolate into a poisonous red table wine.
      It kept me awake, it kept me alive
and as every dawn is rapidly wiped from the lenses of this life
That silly notion of a pipe-dream seemingly fills me to the seams

I’ve never felt such comfort from such an uncomfortable situation
while also feeling so much discomfort in every soothing moment between

I’m completely powerless when with you.
And that seems like an enjoyable fantasy, but there’s a hidden cost.
I’ve never this intimidated and frightened, meaning it drives fear regarding my actions. 
I’m resigned to give-up and surrender in all scenarios. 
Not by choice or on purpose. I find absolute worry in how feeble I can be.
Once in shutdown mode, I’m just aligning all of my frustrations from spending too much money, not being able to physically find comfort in your grasp, never being able to fully connect..
and it all gets pooled together in a bubbling mess of self-pity and lack of self-esteem 
and that is where I choose to wallow. 
I wallow in every bad turn taken, every misstep remembered, and all the painful pulses that shaped our circumstances into the current format. I wallow in that collection of my inabilities and major flaws—finding a warming solace in the bitterness of my miseries. 
It’s unhealthy and dangerous, and fully accidental but self-inflicted. 
It’s the basis of where I fail as a human every step of the way.
In all relationships, including friends and families and each surface acquaintances. 
  The glow of my inadequate functioning is usually silent and absent. 
It’s only abundant when the bond is tight, the love is strong, and none of my words can capture the essence of any concept regardless of topics. And it manifests itself in being overtly nervous, far too talkative, wild grasps at attention—along with the rest of my act.

It’s likely all an act to make sure I’m liked.
That narcissistic lust that saturates my every movement within a timeframe. 
I’m not fully sure if my vast stockpile of fears, frustrations, misfortunes have any bearing on any true scale of failure. But the depression is real and it weighs me down in disabling ways. 
A forever daisy chain reminder that love is rarely the answer for loneliness. 

Joy once unplugged—
~
Cinematic overtones sub-loaned the introduction.
Bathed in a florescent accent of desire, fire chiseled with tears from a stream.
For dreams never engage reality with bi-partisan appreciation...
...or equal parts of envy and lust.
Placed on proposal-notice along the fantasy banks, 
time distorted the appearance of all--
time became a crutch against the self destruction, breakdown, and rebirth.
After holy matrimony: our reptile smile intertwined beside drink. 
Venture forth and forever, calendars sliced wildly at our breaths 
and vividly at our sense expanding moments.  
True emotion sews a seed of doubt in those starving for discovery.
Serene opportunities turn our best intentions into cruel prisoners.
Fir clung to vast expanse, glancing back against a dreamscape of second guessing and confessing and hesitations and mistakes....
coal coated concrete with a puppy dog frown
a sold slave of meaning, huddled in the corner of my dawn. 
Full-spin capsizing against a free-fall, 
two paths land in the haze of smoke
within purple mountains majesty.
Explorers found no where to hide, 
Soldiers traded all sense of pride,
Artists lost all tense of muse,
Dreamers consumed the last drop of booze,
Clergymen couldn’t correspond stories, 
Homelessness became the least of our worries, 
Pilots landed softly in the foreground, 
Doctors confused love for the background, 
and nothing will be written as deemed vital by society.
The entire manifesto of this filed report...has vanished.
For a blank canvas masterpiece awaits in a cluttered room.
Thru the beauty and raw desire never discovered the true plot of the film.
That stream never felt the quivering lips of hopelessness against truth.
Those fantasy banks dried to a crust, entrusted to the fate of destiny.
Our relationship will forever warm my flaunting moments in life.
Stay perfect in my fantasies, cascade off the silly notion of reality...
...and equal hearts shall trust in the division of time and opportunity.
Never isn’t a moment that always happens to be rarely near us.  
Forever isn’t always lived with the skin
and in another experience, 
our story glimmers on.

Depravation of all intense senses, 
for all intensive purposes, 
these intents and verses find the time to become tense sentences.  
On the fences of dividing lines,
where our lies and dreams collapse into moments of life. 

Awakening—
Shaken alive by the mournful sorrow of eventual events. 
venting never meant less than this debilitating sensation. Yet, the isolation was self-inflicted...intrinsic instincts mean nothing compared to my actions in life. Hollow cavities is what consumes the breathless pursuits of a haunted soul. Oh, Below low’s depths...that’s a housing place that is lacquered onto every eventual step. Carved out niches switch one’s mind into a realm of deeper understanding. Handing down an upward grasp towards all that define a lovely landscape is an empty fulfillment. Twisted intentions meant nothing, and wicked whispers became my speech pattern. The heaviness cannot lift this emptiness into anything resembling a realm of reality. Wishes for the future are glazed with hope for perfection. However, within a withering shell is another jealous coward. And that coward tends to circulate prose.  

The Sanctity of Sanity—
Meandering around, the founding of a fantasy cost one’s future.
Lost souls swimming throughout the peripheral, literal or lasting--
we’re all prisoners of our passion and desires. 
Troublesome, lonesome--
dark corners painted with the potion of an opportunity.  
Fanciness sewn into another bystander’s presence, 
the eyes are controlled by the heart. 
And this heart wanders and drifts.
Visual cues articulate a hue of honesty, but the truth was never trusted.
Encrusted with a diseased crease on acts of humanity. 
The poet cannot control that lone lust to investigate the soul.  
The sick fuck must live with the sadness that he spawns. 
Dawn molests the swollen feelings, 
the outcast has been cast into the horizon.
All these staggerings were once a dance move, a maneuver of style.
The hauntings have transformed themselves from an existence into a regret. 
A judgement of decisions will never bring justice to my digressions. 
Incessantly filtered through a series of hatred becomes one’s habitat, 
one’s environment.
Flood the room with sympathy, a symphony of phony lines and justifications. 
Rationalizing human nature sounds like the background music to hell.    
Sell your pride, hide your fear, hear your dreams...
and the scream creates the soundtrack to everything to come. 
Where can one hide when their integrity and decency disintegrated?
Sanction all sanity, 
for the legend will never be born and the carnival meanders past vision. 

Ooh lala altered—
Take me aside, awaken my vast immunity to humanity.
All that transpired was transparently unaware of the apparent shattering.
Flattered by the notice, 
vagueness becomes the in between when dealing with feelings. 

The Cruise—
Flattered with attention, scattered through a series of alterations. 
An alliteration of the senses fails to make the necessary sense. 
Intensely void of vital fluids, the spine tapped, nectar dripping from the wounds.
Time machines and hindsight, tools of the lonely confused spirit. 
Seriously silly with nothing left to truly honor, 
for the truth rests somewhere between the gaps of anticipation and hesitations. 
Impact personas cannot understand the bruised concept of finality.
We’re destined to become the hazy image of ourselves through such selfish pursuits. 
Useless is the chaotic callings we anoint as the chosen one. 
Too many times the soldiers of life have been caught counting 
on those slotted to pretend.
Leading to an imbalance in the equilibrium. 
Calmness and clutter rarely begin to manifest a belief in the beyond.
One step further was once a dare, 
now it’s a step towards a final resting place. 
A location draped with second guessing and poor decision making skills. 
The glaring impact of flooding lights crowd around what we never obtain. 
Dreams and wishes stack up in the corner of the mind.
A cobweb of bitten intuitions need not apply. 
Supply of having lost grasp of all important is overwhelming and understated. 
All-star stomping in and around the cracks attracts a painted schematic.
Automatically tuned into the frequency we’re prepared to handle.
The grip on pure happiness falters when tested with too many choices. 
 Selections choke up the poet, 
forks in the road starve those without an appetite for normalcy.
Formal warning was given when we embarked on the white caps of our ambition.
Take this prophet and drag him across the deck for seven long days.
Blister in the sun and understand that we’re all a collection of the decision made.
Maids clean our acts with the polish of potential. 
Tuck down service on our pure bred human nature.
A slumber of instincts seems to be a decent attack on humanity. 
When our futures have been killed off, 
we can begin an assault on the remainder of what once needed to happen.
Slavery built the American economy,
a fact rarely discussed on our currency.
Relating to a stack of generations, we’re all prisoners of our former selves. 
Selfish pride instills all tenderness into the bones of our ancestors.
Family trees carved into totem polls of past lovers.
Quantifying the numbers is performed without the added bonus of personality.
And these victims are also passengers, they’re also customers.
Organic origami of finances transforms the ranks into the madness of the cruise.

Savaged Beast—
Recline into a reality that borders along fairytale and fantasy. 
Everyday wanderings cast out a shadow, complete with horned appendages and stone-embalmed scales. 
My inner image is one of a confused beast, a savage creature tuned into animalistic tendencies not fit for civilization. 
Tenacious undercurrents warranting a tiresome scope on the male agenda. 
Overstepping boundaries, my appetite for everything reminds me of a foreign fang dipped gently into a stream of unconscious decisions.  
Shunning off decency, halting the pursuit of beautiful bliss with a whisper into the dark abyss of lonely chaos. 
Protagonists aren’t suppose to live this type of privileged existence. 
The hero of common law is meant to shackle the haunting instincts, 
castrate the cluttered gaze. 
Awaiting the calmness of words, this sentence feels like a troubled paraphrase of a lifestyle often sought after--before was my history--a later future was meant to be birthed by this present stance.
Walking with a confused grin and running within circles of my longing, short steps of a stumbling fool contain the prototype of performance. 
I curse the jester and enemy of my deepest soul, 
that blackened knowledge of a corridor lined with silver sparks forever burning the skin. 
Branded as a doubtful participant in formal occasions,  the beast never selected a career path of distraught conversations. 
Explanations and excuses were never meant for constant language. 
Slipping and sliding, every step towards a brighter belonging is cloaked with an uncomfortable chill and casual invitation. 
There’s no battle plan. Armor wasn’t included on the manifest of this wardrobe. 
A robed king can sashay around his castle of creation,
but when the simple-minded peasant refuses to pay up, he’s robbed of everything promised in the pamphlet. 
The rides feels nice, but the destination was meant to be included in the route.
Not all that wander are privy to the colloquial chatter masquerading as propaganda. 
And yet, this war-cry maintains the mask of a cry for help.
Assistance gathers like barnacles, ones that are consumed without recognition. 
Hungry hearts resting alongside starving skins, when again can life begin?
Signs say at conception, but the reception of numerous parties have faded into the memory glands of photographs and the favors seem more like flavors than human souls. 
This dungeon has been decorated with fancy flair, flaring nostrils hellbent on destruction weren’t in the master plan. 
The blueprints hinted of some other color attending the festivities, but the misery-laced hues cue the beast into a corner. 
That long line of forgotten dreams and shattered stanzas.  
Tragedy cannot reciprocate understanding or sympathy. 
It is the hardened crime, adorned with a warning sign, that beams in an abandoned field meant to represent the path to loneliness.  
Alone with thoughts, though stuffed with an inflated ego and handfuls of compliments, the walk seems to appear paved. However, the quicksand isn’t a path of least resistance, but a self-inflicted grave saved for those unwilling to anoint freewill. 
Destiny mocks this misstep into the minefield of mind numbing stubbornness. 
Star-studded constellations meant to help with navigation--end up defining a legacy.
Slit the throat of the beast, and recreate the humanity in the aggregate:
a story of truth is meant to unfold.   

Flustered Fantasy—
Forever and ever, stop severing the tie to society.
Vagabonds cannot afford the passion that bonded them to the freedom.
Drifters of a demonized demeanor remain seated, sifting through the terrors of form.
As the fluctuations flutter with a wild craze, the level playing field is frequented with tired slogans. Vocations of scattered pursuits, enroute to everything and nothing in the same general grasp. 
This is all realized while unwinding a highly prized decision.
The vision can become complacent when tilted into the cloudy path of a dream trip. 
Skipping along the hierarchy of everyone’s desired path, the pebbles of reality feel like boulders on the shoulder....though self-inflicted, intrinsically real.
Trials and tribulations make eyes roll when gathered inside the various estuaries of these never ending roads. 
Pursuing one’s goals unfolds a jealous misunderstanding of the true cost. 
Lost, though finding every reminder behind a backstory of the skeletal structure that supports one’s craft. 
We’re all artists. 
Some use their fingers, others handle it with an uncanny ability to create comfort. 
Uncomfortable with a duvet covered existence, discomfort surfaces as a reminder of the real world. 
A spinning mass covered with a confused mess, all unfolding their own plot. 
Humanity is an inside joke, and the laughter is counted with dollar signs and signage meant to restrict access to the wild. 
File it away as another breathless babble. 
All is not sacred, when the Bible remains incomplete. 
Scriptures are a collection of poems, readers and writers become authors and consumers. 
Highly prized destination calls at a train station, though the conductor is drunk on discounted wine. Conducting oneself properly is only captured inside a photograph of the holy when untaxed with burden. 
Our scars are underneath a skin painted by the chance of birth.
Our desires are understood and documented by scientists and psychiatrists. 
Our temples are filtered through a body of work that can no longer adjust to wireless information. 
These are all excuses, executed with the precision of a lost dreamer, breathing in the fantasy of a reality that no longer sinks when punctured. 
Flotation devices are what we nickname our ideals, our own moral compass.
A compass filled with whisky, dancing along the lines of a gravity-fueled globe that is just now fathoming how destructed the disciples can truly be when teased with the comforts of fuel and hatred.
This war of nutrition leaves everyone with stomach pains.
And the painful pleasures of a flustered fantasy remain a desired battlefield. 

Dust Particles—
Fuel on a grueling path, sipped as a slippery slope to satisfaction. 
Tired longing belongs inside an uncapped resource. 
The source of beauty and refreshing breath of fresh air interlocks with the calming crisp captured inside the nectar of necessity, 
Water droplets of destined memories, remind one’s own restlessness of forgotten dreams.
Whispers of a secret accent, coaxing the body into understanding the words of truth.
Body follows the soul and the soul traces the curvature of home.
Two wanderers, settle into the arms of a crest--a mountaintop of two families, intertwining and grasping at a desired destination.
Anchor my longing, infiltrate my hesitations, remain my calming force.
For too long, we’ve uncovered the dirty uniforms meant to shelter us from the storm. 
These dust particles flirt with the air, and settle for nothing but the settling effect of magnetic attraction. 
Overwhelming at first glance, under arrest for the pursuit of happiness, criminally minded as the forgotten soil.
This is what forms the crust of our world we’ll soon create.
We are the ones who form the encrusted land, drizzled with an unimaginable sparkle, topped with the treetops of a forested awning. 
Spawning a creature of our most vivid creations, our art is what shall help define a romantic madness. 
Vast collections of cast away selections are a constant reminder that the ending stages of our story is the beginning pages of a longer line. 
Everything that drips from the proximity of your steps, that’s the path I’m longing to retrace. 
Faced with fears, punctured with pawns--the queen is the hardest to imagine and she shifts beneath the boredom of everyday.
Amazement is more than a casual word, displayed on a daily basis of sights.
Engulfed in a dust storm of emotion, the eyes are caked with the soreness of stillness. 
Awaken all senses. 
This molecule of vastness remains unsurpassed by thoughtless attempts at prose.
The most visceral unraveling is about to begin, the purest format of realization unwinds with a surprised connection.
Each and every exhalation of creation is now spun inside a circle that anoints the one.
Dizzy and dazed, though the heaviness is a comforting pull.
Hold on and let go, unfold and unfiltered--nothing lies beside the absolute glory of the heart’s last grasp at air.
Gathered together, nestled into the landscape as one island in a sea of sensation. 
The substance sustained within is the essence of love.

Pink and Blue—
(the story of a city girl and a cowboy on the road, I’m told)

Quantify the accumulative effect of affection.
Correction: Why is destiny always masquerading as a hazardous disaster?
Her essence just floated into view in a frenzy, 
skewing the throat and renewing the emptiness of recent decisions. 
A captivating elation that dissipates my every sense of balance and calm,
the scent of a passionate psalm. A dreamscape in my weighted palm.   
Like a storm infused sunset, spliced with tender slices of elevated vitality. 
A sorcerer of porcelain perfection, beauty that makes me cynical of fine portrait art. 
Start alerting all senses on deck--
desire shall now contradict the present lifestyle we swim within.  
Emancipate my nervousness with her shroud of stunning features. 
I’ve reworked silver screen moments to align into times like the day we first arrived inside the proximity of each other’s eyes. 
I’ve disguised movements with method, action with coordination. 
One hopeless romantic hoping against all that means less. 
Two participants in a triangle of direction...
may more confusion be stuffed inside a homeless poet’s heart. 
Start with the revelation that that wasn’t some clever creation, 
but an accurate assessment of the current situation.
Stoned by the chalky taste of a castle built in haste. Pasted plastic by a false hope since eloping inside her gaze is all one wishes to dictate with their current plot in life. 
This plot of land I occupy will forever dread not being instead fully incapsulated in proximity to everywhere she stands. 
Rebranding every inner push, now pulls a masterpiece snapshot of her heavenly persona onto the wall of thought and into every hall of my memory banks. 
Shorelines assured to dissipate with the ebb tide of her casual steps.
A [hocus pocus] scheme focuses on how our two agendas can rhyme. 
Must rhyme; for if reconnection ceases to exist, all doubts of love at first sight remain on site and all assurances of my own personal apocalypse collapse into my daily to do list.
Insisting my world will end seems cliche, a cynic of monogamy now finds timing to be the most bitter figure in the equation.
Bad timing cannot be the monarch rule in a kingdom hellbent on torturing lost souls.
Rescue parties seek bipartisan agreements inside this vacation of sensations.
I’m a prisoner of my own lifestyle. 
A wandering heart fully infatuated with living in the moment has been handed two moments to manifest into a stereotypical destiny from...as if the chaos doesn’t flow continuous in the madness of it all already.
She remains a city girl, crowned with adoration and dedication. A muse, amusingly discovered at a time of full scale confusion. 
This useless drifter catapults down this rushing flood of American society.
Finding each other is the first step,
every journey necessitates moments of luck to manufacture puddles of decisions.
Time will give birth to our eventual ending stanza, whatever grasp that may be.
Maybe our moment has dried off in the swollen sun of a spastic first moment presently placed in the past.
Maybe this connection spawns a sequel, and the sequel spawns a quill of timeless words acted/spoken out by our presence and bodies. 
Opportunity and chance have already bullied by intentions and agenda. 
tomorrow is a day,
forever is a fantasy,
And the only certainty is death.
our lives will continue to beat on in the heartstrings we sustain.
may we remain in tune.
for now: I offer a toast to the tastiness of temptation and may the gestation period of whatever plot-line our futures occupies...
we’re forever sentenced as the offspring of true love and casual lusting.

Adonis of the Meadow—
Once given the right to make a wrong decision, feel the slip of temptation on the lips of our whisper. 
These secrets we carry are now soaked with the experience. The experience that solves the riddle of what each other's body feels like. And what the kiss tastes like. 
Forbidden adventure is no longer foreign. 
Now it is an illegal immigrant on the lands of proper relations. 
Sensations sinking in and syncing stories to our dreams. 
I'll force the explosions of wonder from your trembling body. 
Collapse again in the inappropriate for pursuit of hunger tastes like the starvation of sadness. 
Feeding the fire that would burn their eyes and hearts. 
We sashay for days, weakening willpower of dedication. 
Your beauty unlocks escapades of wonderland in the mind. 
Adonis of the meadow. Eyes baking gems. 
Our lazy days in bed would fulfill why feelings are felt.
We've cheated the distance meant to separate us. 
The warmth from my heart holds tight our secret.

Alone Together—
Cascades of days were the somber reminder of our connection. 
Infected with time spent together, moments were our own little escapade. 
Faded feelings remain worn out by effort, and the struggles to maintain.
Pain replaces kisses, and suffering replaces the woven moments in bed.
Fed with the notion that selfishness is something we cannot name,
something that changes, once everything rearranges itself.
Healthy as it was, our individual identities became the foreign currency.
Urgency to rush into a mending of hands, the grip slipped from under the weight.
Fate made us enemies, my actions were the final catalyst.
A depressing grasp at the entire structure I’ve built.
Collapsing down onto itself, like the moment we both knew our lips would touch.
Such waste, that is how my existence tastes, on a daily basis. 
Shaded away from the brightness of happiness, the dark feels like home.
A tomb that I built with my lazy hands, and nervous eyes.
Dyes could never stain such bitter coldness into the skin, not how I’ve done it.
A cautionary tale, warning lovers not to cross the road in front of my madness.
Sadness means nothing, when emptiness is everywhere.
This castle is charred and bruised, a fight with everything lovely.
Nothing sacred will ever be born, 
the evolution of my emotions will die in this generation.
Extinction links my words with the shunned attempts at decency. 

The Happy Child—
The curvature of a smile, continues straight down into the depths of fiction.
A mask that is worn, torn from the pages that mimic the silver screen.
This type of personality is wrapped up in being tucked away.
Far from light, far from sight, out of the hearts of those who possess normalcy.
We’ll see if this is the creation of everything fake.
Stakes tear into the ground, with blood pooling in the corners of hungry mouths.
Gaping worries, as to how soon death corrects the problem.
Solving this world’s major struggle, is the most monogamous task at hand.
Solutions in black dresses, they circle the feeble corpse...fables are untrue.
Fantasy is make believe for one simple reason, invention of beauty is as old as humans.
Thankfully, we escape into the corners of our mind, 
creativity makes each one of us the author of our dreams.
Shake it out, the devil of decisions will always be a close relative. 
Family members provide us with the destiny, we must disembark on our own ecstasy.
Wild days are conquered by thoughtless nights,
sunlight captures our true intentions in the netting of forgetting.
Memories are the worst type of weapon.
Self inflicted wounds will never heal, and feel as if they were manufactured.
Possessions can only possess those on an unending search.
Parties will always be assembled, and invitations are one’s golden ticket to security.
Locked away is this concept of pleasure,
darkened stages are all we have to nickname the invention of loneliness.
Remaining under a flood of clutter, discarded relationships sent out like Valentines.
Hastily drawn hearts that circle the wavering struggles of a madman. 
He is the one who ends this sentence with a period of calm.

Green Grass Stains—
Across the cupboard, a feeling rests.
Too much regret, a sadness.
The effortless, they wander less
It’s the passioned ones, who will never sit.
 Forever feeling, like there’s doubt
A cluttered moment is being called out.
Take my heart, it beats for you.
The greenest grass stain, that you ever knew.
You never knew me, but nor did I.
I’m a lost soul, it’s why we both cry.
Dealing with me, has been your chore.
Folding all my smiles, as you found the door.
Look out across, this entire globe.
You’ll never hear, I’ve pierced your earlobe
I’ve pierced it well, with all I’ve ever meant
I said half of it, the rest was never sent.
Scared to cross you, or try and take it all
I’ve given to you, your purest warning call
Berating me, with each and every word
means little now, I’ve already lost my world.
We’ve taken out, a sacred loan
purchased our freedom, I’ll forever be alone

And if any of this structure rhymes with talent, it is all by coincidence, 
meaningless thoughts are the only true building block.
At least, when one is constructing a fence 
around the intensity of love and the convenience of misery.
Borders control all that make us restless...
...confessions of a confused poet.

Green Oak—
coordinated assembly with no interest involved. 
solved is the gap between horror stories of used up kisses and image. 
the showcase was lost in an adrenaline packed sound. 
found was nothing worth while. 
aside from the portrait of temptation. 
morsels of that paint have been dried up for years.  yet the colors still attract sunlight.  
an secretion of attention is all one needs when desire is aimed to be fed. 
the hunger of a growling personality will always need nourishment. 
even from skin tones not on the food chain. 
a locket of beauty is what one prays upon daily and yet a rocket of action is what one preys upon hourly. 
this is the plight of man and the flight plan is towards little improvement. 
there is a bridging of casual tastes and more cordial arrangements one cannot handle. 
especially if those hands are open and forever rubbing language from still lips. 
the greatest achievement known to the heart is one with the meaning left unknown. 
that continuing carousal the brainstem sends for. 
four senses will never help in an orchestra of the mind.  and yet they are the instruments. 
irony has become to self aware in our generation. 
pop culture references fence in ones ability to read a situation.  
the fire bombing of emotion still pays the fee of one’s own memory. 
and if our diet is on the present, the gift of life might be returned prior to discovery.
all this was unlocked after the shock of learning nothing from the teachings of a portrait.  

Forbidden Acceptance—
Branches of trees feel like secrets of the forest. 
Twisting towards the light after sinking through the motions. 
Travel plans land one deep within the seas of ambiance. 
Casual chatter collects interest from the vivacious voice. 
Slender notions mixing as cocktails and changing the plans of thought. 
The full scope can gather only tidbits of the light. 
Making all who wander into eyesight; the ones holding keys of knowledge. 
Forbidden doors remain intricate and intriguing. 
The details focus into blurred shadows as splashes become the white noise. 
Take this hand and hold onto everything once kept shrouded in burned knuckles. 
Fights can seem distant when miles of fondness unravel. 
Soon the secrets became our dialect. 
Promises discussed with passion and plans etched in the days resting at our toes. 
Steps towards wrong can only right the ship of togetherness. 
Feathered hopes now dangle with the strangled attempt at patience. 
A moonlight drive towards feasts of inappropriate gatherings. 
Jump once for the life can sometimes feel lighter than a dream. 
Musical notes shut the door and opened up a wave of proper actions. 
Not now, but soon. 
Sooner than later and never to late to begin again. 
Again this seems like everything wrapped together so perfectly. 
Attach your advice and stager on you huddled masses.

Source Code—
Who is the wild man now? 
released to the wildness for successful adventures. 
Shed the excess cares through rivers that once carried the soul. 
Cold bitter pin pricks against the skin are never ending. 
a constant hum of pain across telescopes zoomed into the brain. 
a thinking man’s game without rules to define it. 
Without evidence to support it. 
Unfortunately intuition is paid by the tuition of the past. 
blackened actions cannot dictate the sensory’s overload. 
Weighted down by all that was lost.  and buried with all that was gained. 
the sprained bleeding from within resembles an injury but is actually just life. 
the bottomless source of wealth has turned from a rancid passion to a splendid state of sadness. 
Gated against triumph, a victory lap capped off by exhaustion. 
caution statements were not the poster child of living. 
a meandering mind will spell countless disasters on reevaluation. 
revelations are not always secrets discovered. 
hidden behind bars of freedom is a longing for nothing. 
Casual statements against the word is a plastic breeze. 
squeeze a voice from the depths of a nervous breakdown. 
the calm will arrive, the wait is unsettling. 
coded verses sit translucent to every sentence involved. 
2 steps forward and one to the side will leave a resting body in place. 
fanatical fantasies side step that entire journey. 
skip a stone and it will never look back. 
Excitement rests on the shoulders we carry. 
Inner strength is forged in a dormant stance. 
Sullen danger is the voyage we all long for.  Suck it up and drink this falsified misery.

Your Poem—
A thousand days we danced,
entranced by ways of romance.
Embarking on sprouting forests;
branches of speech, teachings. 
We learned to grow into one.
Joy never created words and
so your creation never felt light.
Dimmed days simmer new souls.
Apologies for my dark personality.
A love was born and now lives.
for days come to be 
known as a life.

Second Guessing—
the paradise once purchased can feel like an expensive burden.
Shouldering a lengthy separation with grace now seems impossible.
maybe even impractical.
Tactical movements out from under the worst a troubling heat.
meet the coldness of truth.
a long lost friend without a nickname.  
shame cakes the morning grin and misery soon introduces one self.
blisters of strangeness arrange itself around the daily grind.
once anointed normal now the timepiece is an enemy.
our relaxing binge on comfort has shot out of the doldrums.
numbness of thought resurfaces and my ground remains unstable.  
able minded drifters label me accomplices and soon this freedom seems daunting.
haunting thoughts of whether or not one can weather the storm they created.
mass precipitation becomes the commonplace and faced with indecision seems enticing.
for I finally decided.  and silence was my concubine.  
others shall follow as many have led. 
fed up with doubting and yet nothing is how it should be.
what once could be is now what would have been.
bent on proving one a warrior, breaking is easier to the touch.
tears make travelers of us all and the home we walk for is never a settling prairie.  
ferry this worry for once the dreamscape was not candy but a true fortress of happiness.
hopefully eyesight finds the oasis in this  torrential waterfall.
hate to be the one always sending apologies but this is my doctrine.

Answered Together—
A jousting of jealousy raged for too short a time.  The loser sits writing right now.
How could all the parts not complete the whole?
How could all the hearts not fill the hole?
Fulfilling manufactured destiny remains the only contest.  
Tested with time and tortured with the answer.  
The question always basked in a similar light.  
Engulfed with the staggering truth, now appears fully eclipsed.  
Not an ounce of hindsight is added to this insight.  
Not a day of remorse courses unseen through the memory.
All of this negative talk and a positive response was always in charge.  
Electrical triggers to the brain refrain the voice.
Strain the language and resort to our daily awakenings.  
New days will continue to emerge and submerged second guessing is the first to respond.  
Fond are we all of this wallowing stance.  
A hollowing chance made empty by every single day           
Weak notions of how weeks will now follow.  
Everything in line and nothing aligns with futuristic endeavors.
This frown will blanket the majority of a calendar.  
One may ask the question; and together the answer hurts.

The Chalking—
Another wasted attempt, empty with emotion.
Fortunes swam wild until the fear of the forest closed in.
Stone leaves the mark across the coldness of a blackboard.
The chalk used as much patience as the heavens could afford.
It sort of happened and the awkwardness is now our stewardess.  
Filling up orders of folded drinks until the splash startles the calm.
Palms were never so forgotten.  
Another wasted attempt, tempted to regret.
Forget the former misery, raining from the past.
Cast shadows into hallways of the exit.  
A presence will be left to occupy an unnoticed floor.
Doors locked from both sides.  
Scores of casual dress.  Dolled up to cover up a lack of smiles.
Tallies mark the lies we both spoke.  
Whereas true intentions finally awoke.
These next steps will be towards something else, something better.
Letters after letters will lessen the longing.
Belonging to another world is the needed movement.
Apocalyptic amnesia.  
I pray for the four horse prints to mark this road I now embark upon.
Dark discoveries surrounded by light’s last remark.
Far from perfection, the road chisels the footsteps that travel.
A hardened agenda and a better destination.

Intentions—
What word would I use?
Abusing the truth and cruising across fantasy lands. 
This word search yields parties without occupation.  Celebrations of a lost way of life.
Freedom from shackles nicknamed jewelry.
 Rocks placed as a sturdy realization against golden bands across a finger.
Rings that circulate the fingers which once danced across the boredom of waiting.
Weights meant to spring life into the equality of decisions.
An actual display of how words circle their meanings.
All of this was foreplay from the truth.
A doctrine of each emotion’s true destiny.
Publish my personality and let editors rip out the facts.
The binding is blinding and never meant to hold tight.
Yet that is how one constructs a novel.  And that is one way to live a life.
Authors of romance novels set their wildest emotions at rest and blandly lay out casual words.
A weak attempt at sensuality and the human spirit is the only casualty.
 These voyages are continually paraphrased in every song 
Yet no one pays attention for freedom is usually free.
Cash registers located in the dreams of youngsters, registered as old souls.
I discounted everything when I became this writer.
Sold all intentions of a career.  Fears were placed on hold.
The operator told all to standby.  
 Stand up for what you believe in.  Unless they are make-believe fantasies.
And we, the poetic masses, will make believers of your worst nightmares.

Looking at Her—
Every description given to his name was fittingly given so proper a name.
A name by any other way would cease to exist.
Silly boys are never meant to settle down.
And yet serial disasters will continue to persist.
The decline of stone statues was never meant to be labeled art.
And torn paintings of landscapes brings color to the heart.
The introduction was placed while service was defaced.
Graffiti interpretations of two stranger’s accommodations. 
A rain incased placement sent arid desires to hydrate.
The location of his destination was truly based on fate.
Motions already turning for tables to be set and yet this is where it rests.
An evening fueled by education; 
Lesson plans made no plans for this.
Knowledge is powerfully pleasing.
Growth can take a breath away when the beauty is the thief.
Hearts were torn open at the explosion of her potions.
Unlocked secrets and daydreams flooded the market.
Capitalism is still just a microcosm of this discovery.
Through her swollen heart they swallowed more than time.
A martyr of solitude is accompanied by happiness.
Triage this heart for it has finally opened its eyes.
After birth of a new day burnt into the iris of his garden.
A village of life blossoms as citizens of humanity.
The insanity of love creeps blindly in and awakens the eyes of this beholder.
 Older than from when one was younger,
this journey into the crevices of discovery unearth reasons for existence.
Since then every day has been painted by her radiance.
 She is the reason one needs to be on earth.

Lady of the Quill—
Release my silence and place me behind bars of beauty.
The beauty of an entire atmosphere.  [Fear of Denial]
Her grace is what slides across the shore of an ocean
onto my encounters. Explore vision.
Shave my past and dress me in her presence.
Present tense.  She appears to study my introduction with appeal of style.
Softly wild.
This takes me to a place, I wish to be.  Presently and eternally.
Where is it I may vacation?  Do I, presently, resent my location?
The status of my patience is disembarking on its own consciousness.
An emptiness of “us.”