A Home For Poetry
It seems like there is more of them
and they are getting younger
they need rooms and phone calls
and their cloths are bad and they smell bad
why so many homeless?
I do not know
but I do that I could easily be one of them
their tribe is rarely spoken to
the other classes want to pretend that
the do not exist
and I think about beggars and billionaires
and everyone else
shit isn’t fair i say
and my mind and ego says, “it is not supposed to be.”
i guess most of us dream of the mountain
that perfect mountain we can go to
to get away from the madness of life
the society
the job the traffic the roads
the cars
the noise,
and all that anxiety
and most of us do not have ourselves
for some their is a need to get that
their center, their soul
and all that which is not me
can all fall away
After we did our thing, in the bedroom
I am usually rough, nasty and freaky
But after…
I can be lil sensitive, a nice guy
and she looks at me, reading my soul
“back to Mr. Sensitive.”
it caught me by surprise
What can I say to that?
Deny it?
lol
it’s the truth
and I knew she liked her dudes tough
and street, or they pretended to be that way
and i was none of that, but was proud
to be able to read her as she was able to
read me
This dude worked for Boeing and was an engineer or something
and he bought me drinks and played video games at bar, we
were bar buddies, not too many people liked him. And we were
both outsiders at the bar. I remember him saying, “you know my job
is hiring Damion, we could always use another janitor.” As if that would
be the only thing i would be qualified to be. I thought it was funny and
interesting if he intended it to be an insult. And deep down it was. Something
was going on in his life to insult me. And even though he worked for Boeing and
made a shit load of money he was not happy. un happier than the shipping clerk
he wanted to insult, interestingly enough
I write a lot of depressing shit
and that is not always me, I do laugh
I do change, just don’t take the depressing
stuff so serious, I’m not that way all the time
I’m not here to preach the gospel of sadness and depression
even when I feel that way
I look over some of the shit I write
I’m like what? I wrote that depressing shit?
I mean, it musta been on my mind at the time,
my emotions, my soul
im not here to preach depression,
but if you happened to relate to some
of the stuff that I write,
then I did my job, and I wish you and my poems
could have been a lot happier, than they were
that is all
a prison for herself
she seems free, she has her chores,
her duties, but she built a prison
for herself, she can’t see it
it’s there in her home,
she constantly cleans, sweeps,
mops the floor cleans the toilet,
she has jailed herself, and she
is free to watch her television
she knows every sound of the house
of every inch, the walls fall upon her
she built a prison for herself
and often, she hates that
perhaps I’m being unfair, which i shouldn’t
we build prison for ourselves,
i have probably built one for myself
Only i can not see it from my point of view
yet
This beast swells within me
this ugly thing which only
wants to make another of itself
and is rarely satisfied,
as it destroys all life forms in its path
just to bathe in it’s own fire
it’s going on repeating itself
like a strange star in a mirror
so destructive and foolish and
even aware of itself at times
