Trading brains

If your head
had someone
else's brain,
the one
that is
the target
of all your
vitriol
and fierce
harsh
criticism
would you
still be the same
after trading
worlds for
a spell
of time?
Would you lose
your mind as
you take a stroll
down the roads
that they
walk upon
each day
and see the
catastrophes
and misfortunes
that you've
never known
in your
realm
of
existence?
No two minds
are the
same
and no
two eyes
with give
an exact
matching
account,
perhaps
we would
all learn
not
to
judge

The Big Waste

From the poor,
others gain wisdom,
from the rich
comes the knowledge
of money
and the love
of it,
and that very
cruel thing
Is the root
of all evil,
a man of such
blessings
wastes his
life counting
money
and sowing pillows
made of it
with so many
dollars
that it would take
a hundred lifetimes
to eat it up,
an indigent life
is never wasted
because his
life is that
example,
of how joy
 can
be found
in the
vast dung hill
of toil,
and he
has
nothing
and takes
all to his
death
and is buried
with everything
he has
and thus
he wins
and the
rich man
wastes
everything
he has to
brew more
riches,
sleeping on
a king size
gold mine
like
a dragon
for all the
world to see
but they
cannot touch it,
and the hungry
behemoth  of
greed and it's
teeth devour
every morsel
of poor folk's
prosperity
and off the
backs of
pauper's,
they gain
their throne
on top of
the world
excavating
a colossal
calamity
crater,
a mighty
mouth
of
indigence
and
a high demand
for cheap noodles
and bologna
and pass
the torch
of their
piggish
legacy
at the
threshold
of death's
creaking
door

The Forlorn Years

  

There were days when 

I wished that an asteroid 

would hit the earth

and that I would never

wake up

to see another morning

and my depression

stuck my face

to a grey wall

of despair

awaking day

after day

in the prison 

cell of

my oh so

hopeless

mind

walking 

in circles

my life was

so bad I thought

I could do

eternity in

hell

standing on

my head

and every day

each minute rode 

on the back

of a snail

and only

millions of prayers

helped me

escape

The whisper that set me free

The flaws I've had

once consumed me,

a looming

dark mountain

of imperfection

stared at

me

like a 

creepy old

painting

with sharp

eyes 

of

judgement

and I was

wrecked

like a boy

staring

at the

aftermath

of a tornado

not knowing

where to 

start

the 

restoration

and then

the voice 

of my God

told me,

"One thing at

a time; You did not

land here overnight."

People

 Our world is

a hodgepodge collage

of clashing minds and

a sea of jumbled 

sketches 

and 

pictures

of ideology

that a heart

holds dear,

a soup

made of 

every 

emotion

and

fear

and the

sharp shards

of life 

we've walked

upon,

but in

everyone

there is

beauty

and it is

hard to see

through the

wrappings of

our inner

Judge,

people are flowers 

and some are trees,

some are like 

a nest of bees,

but whether you

believe it 

or not

we all need 

each other

in ways deep

and not so 

deep

we are 

all one

body

that 

makes

up

the

world.

Our fear

Fear cripples us

and devours our 

Potential

it stops us

from becoming

the jewel that

God made us

to be

It is a ball

and chain

and a cage

that imprisons

us, 

it has

a big

mouth

and tries to

punk us

out

like a

big prison

bully

that obstructs

us from

from

our

joy

and

keeps

us closed

to the idea

of change

and a 

better

way of

life

and stunts

our mind

from

growing,

and because

of it 

our spirit

lays on

the road

of despair

like

dead

meat

for the

Vulture

of

dejectedness

The goodness of misery

Misery is the mother

of wisdom,telling

us the lessons of
our folly and
every misfortune
making muscle men
of our minds,
it is the
creator
of the blues
and our best
teacher
that we
ever had,
the spurs
that kick
the horse
of 
change
and the eyes
to help us
see a
blessing
and if it were
not for misery
we'd always stay
the same,
I once was
so miserable
that for 
months
I forgot
the sun 
and that
 the sky
was blue
and it reminded
me that every
day
is 
a blessing

The new voice

My past was a ghost

that hovered over me

that would whisper 

in my ears

for years

and told 

me lies

and cheered

all my 

failures

it's invisible

finger pointing

at me

and this 

made me

afraid to

try

paralyzed 

by

every

accusing

word

and every

bad thing

happened

that it

prophesied 

and then 

one day

I'd had

It up to

my ears

and

I told

that 

voice

it had 

no

power

and I 

began to

believe

all of 

my minds

encouraging 

words

and to

dream

and

dared to

try

and now

I am

victorious,

a new

creature

with lots

of zeal 

and a

hearty love

for

life

A word of hope

Yesterday is dead

today is a gift

so close that

door

to the day

before

and chase

your dreams,

your story

has a brand

new page

not one

single day

is the same

if you dare

to look hard 

enough,

your destiny

is not 

cast

in

stone,

each day is

a blessing

and a mystery

and every

tomorrow 

is a

cheerleader

for hope,

you do not

know what it

has in it's 

suitcase

to give 

you

take a

moment

to smile

because you

are strong,

strong

enough to

make it 

this far,

God and the

universe

Applauds

You

and I 

do too.

Joy

I've laughed in jail

a big

happy

belly

Laugh

danced on

the streets

penniless 

and broke

howled at

the moon

when I had 

no food

and somehow

smiled

with

rotten

shoes

and somehow

sick as a dog

I've cackled

Joy is an

attitude

it can be

had in 

the shittiest

 of all our

predicaments

of misery

and all

our rubs

joy can

visit you

anywhere

on your

darkest

day

when you've

lost your

Way

and even

when you are

about to

die

and joy

might be

your last 

visitor

on that

day

just before

you fall

off

the

Earth

New Orleans

Is it an old city

that wears black clothes

and grieves for it's soul

in the purplish grey light

that wakens winter's sad morning

and muddy shredded sleeping boots 

hanging of benches by the river

I mean the tramps

and it cries through the eyes 

of sick old haggard men

who sit on the steps

by the river 

smoking Bugler

where water licks their shoes

and between bites of stale

yesterday pastries

they long for the love 

they cannot get

and their dead mothers 

and more "Mad Dog"

and me for 

more beer

and this old city is a 

grey mourning lady who cries too

and the hope in her arms

is a dead terrier

shrieking for life 

from it's eyes

for the song of

horses hooves at night

and carriage wheels

and piano blues drifting out

windows to the

ears of the moon

for the ghosts of what

she dreamed of

not to be the

dreams of ghosts but what

she wanted them to

and this is the real blues

the unsung song 

that no one has sang

that sings without lips

to the ships

and Algiers and 

my emptiness and

a dawn that wants to

orange but can't

and I am slurped 

out of my skull

a numb empty cranium

freshly pulled from

ill luck's 

bag of crawfish

and my heart 

is a faucet

that wants to cry

for this old city

that seems like

it wants to die.