Keep it safe
in familiar territory.
Nothing non sequitur.
Nothing out of place.
Don't go sailing off into outer space.
Stick to topics that relate.
(Ignore how everything is connected to everything else -
not everyone thinks that way.)

Nothing out of left field.
You've got to save some face.
There's a reputation (somewhere, somehow) to maintain.
Be polite, pleasant, and plain.
Leave the madness in your brain.
Hide your heart;
keep it tucked away,
and above all else,
don't go digging up those corpses from their grave.

"Wonderful weather we're having.
Isn't it a lovely day?"

There's so much more to life.
That can't be all there is to say . . .

Oh Keeper of my heart,
Massage to soul I bruised,
Stay my masochistic hand,
Stop me from throwing rocks,
At my own glass chest.
Help me to see the unfading beauty,
You made me to be.
You commanded me to do away with fear,
And yet here he is at my table.
Peace is by a far a sweeter dish,
And my tongue longs to hold it forever.

Oh Keeper of my heart,
You won’t let it fall,
Or let it be broken beyond repair.
So I may love recklessly,
If I love you the most.

Your peace is like a gentle rain,
Falling on a troubled head,
I must release myself to play in the shower,
And get happily soaked.

It’s a fine line,
A tricky place
She said,
Walking with a clock in hand,
A sword in your mouth,
A trees flower branches sprouting from your head,
You can’t put anything down,
But if your arms get tired,
I’ll hold them up

Plastic People, with their rubber dreams and artificial passions.
They're raised by their plastic parents who give them wax smiles, hollow promises for a future.
Plastic people and their perfectly polished personalities have superficial beliefs, in which they are the center.
Their corrupt ideals on intelligence place people in categories of A through F, score others out of 100.
Plastic people know nothing beyond the realm of themselves. Their selfless actions preceded by selfish thoughts.
Skills wasted singing self-centered songs, writing conceited poetry.
A plastic person does not know that they are plastic, but will accuse others of being so.
Now, what does that make me?

The art of the written word is everything.
Each letter is a tune,
A dance of the pen on paper,
The ink, the mark of a masterpiece.
Your brain connects to the pen
And they become one thing.
Thoughts are words not yet written,
Written words are those not yet spoken,
And whomever can harness both,
Is an artist

If you are what you eat, are you also what you think?
Does what fill your body with out weigh what you fill your mind with?

Now that’s food for thought,
That you ought to consume.

You think that intelligence
is measured by words
by sentences
by essays
but no combination of letters you put together will be enough
to erase your ignorance.

thinking only of work
- eating my own business
minding my food

and manners

people small talking too
loudly with mouths full

- best get back and busy

- all this talk of ebola
isis and clowns with machetes -

slender man and little girls
- kidnapped girls forgotten

collateral damage
- somewhere else
someone else's -

hard to concentrate
on  important things
like metrics and data calls -

site density- history
- work things and holidays -
you know

i should buy pumpkins
on the way home today

- halloween is coming soon.

r ~ 10/15/14

Sinners and winners,
and Saints.
Don't give me a halo
I'll just throw it away and lay in the
mess
of my
own
making.

Or taking that on a bit,I
might sit in my easy chair,watching
the hard times and wondering where
the softness is hid.

I get rid of these thoughts that surround me,
settle down for a sleep with the gods in and
around me,all offering promises of
eternal salvation.

You can't save the lost
they are gone.
I tell the gods that
it's time to move on,
they still try to give me a halo,
I tell them
I'll throw it away.

On any other day
and in a different play
the gods might have their way,
the sinners and winners would have no say
just a halo
and what good is that?