Born.
       Grew.
Died.
      What?

A baby born is stubborn.
That's what I am.
A writer filled with bluster and wind.
To some, I am confusing, to others, a fool.
But a baby born is stubborn.
Can I begin again?

Of course the answer is no, there only remains the end.
So growing, learning, crying, I guess I'll just pretend.

Sliding hands together, preparing for this day.
Realizing I've found my true place, as I have seen societies reflection.
I like it here, snug and warm, rejected by my peers.
It really truly is lovely to be rejected.
No tears, no expectations, nothing but a cyber desert.
Take heart you high school children of rejection, dressed in black with spikes in your ears.
Take heart, take pride in your rejection, hell even light a smoke, there is no one to judge or disrespect you.
We can sit and laugh with our acne scars, looking out, seeing their perfection.
So come on and join the club as you and I are the next generation.

Mr. Lotus, I loved your bit, filled with pictures and wit. Humor sounds touching on truth, yet in everyone of your pictures I can see a different 'it.'

It is funny, yes, and true.
It explains the matching of mind.
It fills one with reason for a metaphor, it that part of what you're trying for?
It is sad to those who think they are trying while others are laughing at their attempt.
It is good that you post a link.
It is black and white without any real color, unlike the true joy of life.
It brings attention.
It brings attraction.
It is good to see you smile.
It is something one could write for awhile while beginning the sentence with 'it.'

Today, Fred was buried, or at least what remained of him.
Never to see him jump or chase again, only a memory which fades with age.
The poor old dog met his bear.
Hopefully the pain was short, by the looks of it, it was.
It is sad to see the bear tried to get the best of him, and even though he's dead,
Fred won.

His new bed is a meadow, his shade a large spruce tree, music by the grey jays will sing to him replaced with stars to cover his sleep.

Fred is dead, yet the story is still alive including you.

How will you act when you face your bear?
Will you kill yourself?
Will you try and run away, or
shout,
debate,
cry,
bargain,
maybe get yourself to a hospital?

Fred walked the path as he was free.
Sniffing the ground, unafraid, while many of you think you'll escape.
The bear, he knows this, as many others do too.

The bear was killed today, I heard the neighbor shout after the fading sound of his rifle let the world know man also has his part.
Is it justice?
Am I glad"
Fred was my friend, yet so too is the bear.
Two parts of me are torn as all that has happened the past years were needed so to learn.

Fred has changed, he has changed my heart.
I will always see him now, as he will be the fireweed flower growing, swaying in the wind, while in the distance I will hear the growling of the bear as he too comes for me.

You and I can not escape it, no matter how hard we try.
Sure, live in denial, yet death knows our actions well.
Death comes in many forms, one of which will find you.
Death can come at any moment, even dressed as a bear.

When the bear comes for you, will you be like Fred and be happy until the end?
Or will you live a life for nothing, dreading, unprepared.
       

Times, they are a changing.

Red necked political suicide by those who embrace a way tied to guns, whiskey, women and country attitude.
Religious groups clammering on who's God is what
Tight assed latte slurping yuppies clinging to technology like they still suck on their mother and fathers tit.
And that's just a start.
How about those isolated psycho pathetic losers planning to blow up their plan?
And the sexually confused folks talking if sheep or dogs are better than gerbils.
Are you starting to understand?

Even pygmy folk in New Guinea love the idea of spandex and spoons.
Why, I even heard of people paying hard earned money on e-Bay for Britney Spears gum.
Are we insane?
Well I know I am.

But now for the subject which burns.
Poems, poetry, poet's, changing too.
"Whilst falling ever deeper, mocking soul my demon weeps." Now what kind of crap is that? To some it brings joy, while others cringe.

Ergo not my path,
       ever searching truth,
                 finding crimson

Oh. My. Gosh. Said by some while other relate with what they read

Poetry changes as does attitude. You can talk about puppies. You can talk about cats. You can talk about what kind of morning crap you had.  It does not matter what the poem is about, with the exception it matters to YOU.

Now, getting back on track.
Times, they are a changing, for me and for you.
Rule books are torn in half.
We really are a primitive species when you think about it. Men wearing beaver hats in the past? While women wore girdles? Yet today we laugh when we see people with high-water pants.

That's the great thing about poetry, it speaks what's currently in your heart. It does not matter how, what, or why you say what you say as it is your truth.

As for Shakespear and others in our past, what respect do you use? In only a few years, the attitude will change.
For example, if  "Brutus, thou art noble, yet I see thy..." was alive and going to school, some people would kick his ass.
For me, I love it all as that is what freedom can bring.
     

.

Dax, the second part of me really likes it.

Welcome party.

Foreskin hiding his little dick from his future of lusting.
Only minutes old, already he is pissing to prove he is a man, especially with his fussing.
For most men, this foreskin hides dirty little secrets.
With safety of a sheep's skin, the  hole in his fathers condom is his reason.
Yet this newborn did not know his secret was out as in mere weeks they cut it off.
Circumcised to reveal societies opinion.
Exposing all, his future holds an excuse for bad sex.

Fat lady nearly sinking the boat,
hauling in her cod,
trying to tell a joke.

"Give a man a fish, he'll feed his family for a day. Teach the man to fish, he'll drink beer all day."

With a laugh, we all agreed.
Especially when she was splashed by a wave.

.

hated wives,
relation seen badly at the bottom of a cheap glass of Irish scotch.
that woman singing stole my husbands cheating heart.

Waterloo of a marriage with you,
i'd rather die trying than want of salvation,
still

ME: A poem by me, about me, and for me.
"Who are you?"

Hello.
"Hello?"

Yes, it's me.
"Who?"

You know,
"Oh my God, it's you!"

Yes.
"Go away."

Yep, banished again.
Is it because of being a sinner?
No, it's because of the word police.

Communication one sided,
is it you, or is it me?

Anyway, if you're reading this Tom, I like your western poem.

Now, as for what I've written, where is that button delete?

The remove button is at the bottom of each post.