Hmmmmm……….

I don’t know why,

A storm rolls in light before sound,

But I do know this,

The rain it brings,

Makes the browned ground rebound.

 

I don’t know why,

Black is associated with evil,

But I do know this,

Colorful things can be lethal,

And darkness can be regal.

 

I don’t know why,

Trees can produce paper,

But I do know this,

If we keep being takers,

We’ll regret it later.

 

I don’t know why,

It’s normal for heads to grow hair,

But I do know this,

I’d wear a lot more hats,

If up there were bare.

 

I don’t know why,

Green means go,

But I do know this,

There’s always at least one,

Determined to go too slow.

 

I don’t know why,

Good belongs on the road less traveled,

But I do know this,

It’s supposed to be worth it,

At the striking of the final gavel.

 

I don’t know why,

Pies are made round,

But I do know this,

I’ve found they’re not worth,

The extra pounds.

 

I don’t know why,

We let machines replace people,

But I do know this,

Progress’s side effects,

Spiral down,

And cause something else to cripple.

 

I don’t know why,

The movie is never as good as the book,

But I do know this,

So many will never know,

Because the book they’ve overlooked.

 

I don’t know why,

It’s impossible to get out of life alive,

But I do know this,

Lately it’s a wonder,

If there’s anything left,

For which to survive.

 

I don’t know why,

Hearts are commonly drawn in red,

But I do know this,

It makes perfect sense,

Because any time they’ve gotten hurt – they’ve bled.

 

I don’t know why,

Wasted time seems to fly,

But I do know this,

What you must do next,

Will force your expression to wry.

 

I don’t know why,

The sun doesn’t shine at night,

But I do know this,

Missing its light,

Doesn’t make the dark,

Any less of a welcome sight.

 

I don’t know why,

Time can’t stand still,

But I do know this,

It would be a convenience to have it at the beck and call,

Of my own free will.

 

I don’t know why,

Fire is hot,

But I do know this,

It makes marshmallows,

Taste as they ought.

 

I don’t know why,

All religions believe themselves correct,

But I do know this,

It appears they all,

Need to be fact-checked.

 

 

 

Catastrophic Controversy

Hell is here,

But don’t let that get in the way,

Of living your life today,

Put your angst aside,

And get the fuck outside.

 

Hell is here,

That much closer to Doomsday,

And the Man Downstairs,

Is trying to take,

An early payday.

 

*************************

You won’t find no sugar-coatings here,

I say,

Fucking relax,

Because facts are facts,

Your time is your time,

It is predetermined,

By not your brain nor mine,

If it’s meant to nab you,

You can not halt it,

And if you’re meant to survive,

At the end you will still,

Be fucking ALIVE!

*************************

 

You must realize,

It’s coughing all around us,

Now we’re coated with its germs,

So expecting the worst,

From this curse,

Everyone’s common sense,

Has become paralyzed.

 

Hell is here,

Stupid souls,

Let it take control,

Rather than live and let live,

Blame is thrown at others,

Who just innocently go about their business,

And long after this is done,

They won’t think it’s fun,

When their targets,

Find it fucking impossible,

To forgive.

 

Hell is here,

What was alright,

Has become taboo,

At least to you,

But speak to another,

And you’re told it’s no thing,

Really,

The world is about to recover.

 

Hell is here,

Times are dark,

Days have vibes,

Like the witching hour,

Daunting and full,

Of the Devil’s power.

 

Hell is here,

It’s been a long time comin’

And would you look at that now?

Many who talk a big talk,

Are frantic and running.

 

Hell is here,

It takes just a sneeze,

To knock a once-badass,

To their fucking knees.

 

Hell is here,

And that black-clad bastard,

Is trying to shine,

So let’s not let him get away with tainting,

People and places divine.

 

Reality

Here in the real world,

It’s too busy for Christmas,

Too busy for the Claus’s,

Mister and Missus.

 

Out here in the real world,

There’s money to make,

The world for us revolves around work,

And there’s no time to take,

Holiday breaks.

 

Here it is,

February now,

And I know it’s way past time,

But here in the real world,

I’m just now finding a minute,

To put pen to paper,

For a Christmassy rhyme.

 

Sugar cookies never did,

Go into the oven,

No stockings were hung,

Or carols sung,

Here in the real world,

It’s not important to build traditions,

For we are all on a mission,

That holidays don’t seem to fit in.

 

Seasonal frippery,

And packages full of mystery,

Under a flashy tree,

Aren’t part of the real world,

Here we barely notice,

That these things have come to be regarded,

As a great importance.

 

Here in the real world,

We’re generally busy,

With no spare time to prepare,

A monstrous feast,

So we gladly give a miss,

To the customary gathering,

Where anyway there is always,

Too much blabbering.

 

Out there in your world,

Christmas is a big priority,

And you view those over here,

As some kind of freak minority,

With kiddies to raise,

And memories to be made,

Presents must be present,

From wall to wall,

So you buy out the whole mall,

But here in the real world,

We have other things that please us,

And it’s not feasible,

To deal with such fuss.

 

 

 

 

 

The World’s Wrong Turn

Ah!

Another Thanksgiving,

About to come to a close,

And it may leave you in awe,

That all I did was doze and watch shows.

 

I did not have a celebration,

Hey don’t worry though,

I’m suffering from neither,

Sadness or starvation.

 

The worst part it seems,

Of this once-revered holiday,

Is the way people fall prey,

To what’s known as Black Friday.

 

One minute they’re lazily,

Sitting around,

With friends and family,

All stuff their faces,

And name off the year’s blessings,

Then low and behold they race,

From place to place,

Completely losing any trace,

Of their earlier grace.

 

But I won’t be bothered,

With such a shopping slaughter,

It does not matter,

How good is an offer.

 

When the fuck did people’s views,

Become so skewed?

This is about the farthest,

From a celebration of harvest,

That the world could have moved.

 

When did Friday,

Start to begin on a Thursday?

And when did shopping,

Become paramount to turkey,

And popcorn popping?

 

It has become commercialized,

And so full of fucking lies,

No longer is it just the start,

To a time of giving,

And don’t kid yourself,

We’ve all played a part,

In the season’s right reasons leaving.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Unseen Storms

I am marked,

By something dark,

It follows me,

Wherever I go,

Making sure high points,

Are followed by lows.

 

It’s not as bad,

As the Mark Of The Beast,

Or the Wicked Witch,

Of The East,

But still it’s shades of dark,

And they leave a mark.

 

I see it daily at work,

When the old jerks,

Who are running their yappers,

Think that I don’t know,

They’re talking about beaus,

And making it out,

Like I’m some cheap hoe.

 

It’s like there’s some slight horror,

Around even the brightest corner,

Right there in front of my face,

Like an ugly tear,

In a pretty piece of lace.

 

I see it each weekend out,

At some local haunt,

It’s not too bad,

Until I overhear the taunts,

Apparently I’m ugly,

And just not normal,

Though I know it’s fact I’m more pretty,

Than most in my city.

 

It surrounds me for always,

A dark, dark haze,

Is prevalent through,

Otherwise bright rays,

And so being paranoid,

Darkens my days.

 

I see it most everywhere,

And I really try,

Not to care,

But I’m so sick,

Of all the stares,

I know tons of folks,

Who need a shove,

Down a long steep flight of stairs.

 

A speck of thundercloud,

In a seemingly spotless sky,

It seems dead set,

On making me cry,

And so presently,

Here I am,

Just trying not to die,

While I’m alive.

The Proverbial Angel And Devil

There is a battle between good and evil,

It’s raging in everyone’s soul,

It takes two halves,

To make any of us whole,

It goes a little like this:

“Do this,

Or I’ll get pissed”!

And,

“No! Please!

Don’t listen to that!

I smell a rat”!

 

These two whisper battles,

Day in,

And day out,

Trying to win my affections,

So I’ll follow their directions.

 

One so bad,

He should make me mad,

But when he speaks,

I hear happy squeaks,

The opposite so good,

I should maybe knock on wood,

For when he says walk,

I cheerily ask,

For guidance to his flock.

 

I’d be better off,

As a one-man show,

But in each situation,

Inside my skull,

My conscience hears two little voices,

That just won’t dull.

 

What the fuck?

Is there a way,

To shut them up?

They’ve been keeping everyone company,

Since the Dawn Of Time,

Shouldn’t they have expired by now?

I’d think they should be,

Way past their prime.

 

I picture the one having horns,

Bearing a black pitchfork,

The other wearing a white robe,

With twinkling stars,

Hanging from delicate earlobes.

 

They represent the two main things,

That drive this world,

Wicked and righteous,

And as thoughts of both,

Course through all our minds,

It would seem we are all one part sinister,

And another part divine.

 

Does either one,

Ever win?

Can one being be,

One hundred percent,

Just goodness or sin?

I’d say no one is perfect,

We’re really each a mix,

Of halos and that creepy,

Six-six-six.

 

 

 

We Frustrate Me

Nothing but distaste,

For the human race,

When further I think on it,

The more the hate,

Picks up the pace.

 

They strive to thrive,

Headfirst they dive,

Into normalcy,

Also known as crazy,

And what a waste,

It’s not as though,

They’re leaving alive.

 

Flitting about here and there,

And most don’t care,

About a thing,

Unless it’s theirs,

And even then,

It’s hard for some,

Not to act like scum.

 

The other day,

I was at the store,

Everyone was there,

Rich and poor,

Saints and whores,

As well as everything between,

After looking high,

And looking low,

They all had,

One thing in common though,

They all needed something,

Their money couldn’t buy.

 

I’m sick of dealing,

With them and their issues,

There’s the alcoholics,

And there’s the apostolics,

Some are even diabolical,

I wonder,

When the fuck,

Did this psycho mix,

Become typical?

 

Let me tell you,

The whole lot is fuct,

If they keep waiting around,

For a run of good luck,

We each make or break our own fortune,

No one is immune,

Now quit looking so god-damn forlorn,

And go grab a new life,

By the horns.

 

Are you wondering when,

I’ll make my point?

There isn’t one,

Yet this wasn’t written,

Just for the fun.

 

 

 

LOL @ “Love”

*************************

I wish you well,

My fellow ladies,

And may you forever steer clear,

Of the ones who are crazy.

*************************

 

It does not exist,

At least,

Not in the genre,

For which we all hope and pray.

 

It’s fictional,

And I am not being stereotypical,

But it’s simple fact,

It exists abundantly in other forms,

But that one,

Produces toxic storms in swarms.

 

I wonder why this is so?

Why we let bliss turn into,

Row after row?

I’d almost rather,

Never have had it at all,

Than go through,

The predestined fall.

 

*************************

 

First you think you’ve found it,

Seems to you,

You’ve found a perfect fit,

Then the storms start to brew,

And someone changes their view,

Before you know it,

You’re back to just you.

 

Now here you are,

Should you try again?

Yes,

You’ve decided,

But the sweet wears off,

And again one takes off,

Like a shot.

 

*************************

 

It’s a joke,

A waste of time,

And that’s the commodity most precious,

So why do we waste it,

On something fictitious?

 

I’ve made a list,

Weighed pros and cons,

Seems the emotional investment,

Is not even close to worth it,

The most you can hope for,

Is staying a tad bit detached,

So when the time comes,

You can walk out the door,

Without being dragged down,

Left to live depressed and sore.

 

*************************

 

I see your smirk,

But you will see,

It will not work,

He will turn face,

And be a mighty jerk,

Once again,

You’ll need to begin anew,

Because of what,

He’ll put you through.

 

 

The Damned Union

A match made in Hell,

Right from the start,

Like a failed piece of art,

Thrown away,

On a clearance cart.

 

A match made in Hell,

But it was on sale,

And both were buying,

So blinded by a bargain,

Neither could tell,

That the other was lying.

 

A match made in Hell,

It started out well,

But it’ll never work,

Not when both parties,

Are so berserk.

 

A match made in Hell,

They say you never can tell,

But others knew,

How it would end,

Long before it was through.

 

A match made in Hell,

And they can’t change that,

No matter how much,

They bitch and yell.

 

A match made in Hell,

Doomed before,

It ever fell,

No way to win,

Despite the fun it’s sometimes been.

 

A match made in Hell,

What was supposed to be bliss,

Feels more like,

Being locked in a cell.

 

A match made in Hell,

No one wanted to sell,

But when it’s over it’s over,

It’ll never turn back,

Into a sunny field of clover.

 

A match made in Hell,

Regardless of being the ball’s belle,

Evidently,

That one wasn’t worth having,

And had to be sent packing.

 

A match made in Hell,

Left ugly and split,

Chewed up and spit out,

Like old and broken sea shells,

Washed ashore,

In the ocean’s swells.

 

A match made in Hell,

Where nothing happy dwells,

They thought it would taste sweet,

Like caramel,

Turns out it’s rotten,

And it’d be best forgotten.

 

 

 

Think Before You Speak

Earl was an eccentric little rabbit,

About which,

Everyone made quite a racket,

He was as ordinary as you please,

Really a lovely fellow,

But there was always talk about,

Him wearing a long black jacket,

And his strange love for eating jello.

 

Some squirrels say his jacket,

Is to aide him in black magic,

He’s not normal,

And he must be up to tricks,

But the otters believe,

It’s just his blameless lucky charm,

And fits naturally to him,

As much as his own arm.

 

The rest of them,

All have their own view too,

So I feel I ought,

To clear things up with you:

He’s a fuckin gem!

 

His many weird habits,

Make him unlike the other rabbits,

Like when he ventures out of the woods,

To stock up on people goods.

 

While he is gone,

Others quake with fear,

As their minds produce some crazy thoughts,

Of things he may be getting up to,

He just buys innocent things,

Like spinach and whiskey,

And lugs them back,

In a big black sack,

But he keeps his doings on the down-low,

So they get freaked out,

By what they don’t know.

 

He’s quite the early bird,

Each morning he happily wakes,

Then after putting the coffee on,

Heads outside,

Where he does a wild dance,

And the onlooking deer deem him absurd,

As they look on in a trance.

 

It’s not totally that tragic though,

See these deer don’t know,

He’s saying some words,

That encourage their meadow grasses to grow.

 

He won’t partake of his coffee,

Without first reciting a good-luck phrase,

That his mother used to hope,

Would be just a phase,

As it made her hair raise.

 

I’ll give you that,

Yes this could be a tad odd,

But it has done things amazing,

Like preventing a carelessly tossed match,

From setting their whole wood ablaze.

 

He grows alfalfa and carrots,

On all sides of his cottage,

And enjoys watching their progress,

During an evening sit,

On his wrap-around terrace.

 

It’s said he does strange things,

While out there each evening,

The Old Owl is always watching,

And says supposedly his lips move,

But put forth no sound,

And his crazy hand motions,

Have been told of for miles around.

 

In reality he’s just humming,

Relaxing himself with a merry tune,

While tapping his arm chair,

With his ice cream spoon.

 

Today he outwitted a tiger,

And stopped him from terrorizing a spider,

The truth’s still being sorted out,

Of just how that came about.

 

Orlando the Owl swears,

That last evening on his porch,

He saw him do a dance,

While swinging ’round a torch,

So it must have been a spell,

How else,

He asks,

Could he have made a tiger fell?

 

Truth be told,

If he could have done such a thing,

He’d rather use such excessive powers,

To fill his pockets full of gold.

 

Sunday is his fun day out,

One week he’ll go here,

And meet an old school peer,

For a game of solitaire,

Another week he may go there,

In search of a new cologne,

To spray upon his hair.

 

Sandra the Sparrow speculates,

That he does evil on these dates,

Why else,

She says,

Would he wander out so far,

Without taking his flashy car?

But he is not at all about Hell,

She does not know what it is she tells.

 

Here’s the truth:

He’s out there having fun,

Dodging busy noses,

As they’re trying to find out,

Everything under the blazing sun,

That he’s ever done.

 

Do you maybe have an Earl,

Somewhere near to where you are?

Are you maybe being less than fair,

While you sit there judging,

From your high and mighty chair?