I do believe this world is mine,
A realm of one—my butler and I.

My butler, not a servant, but a caretaker,
Equal to any man, as all men are.

No status, no wealth, no pride
He exists, helps, and devotes to his work
Committing no crime
Just as I am a man
Except I am all the things a ruler is
As nasty and cold as a man gets with a mountain full of gold
I think I cannot  grow frail and old
For what one calls a dream, divine,
Is but a slow demise of mine.
As for my caretaker, he shall be the wealthiest man who ever lived

The internet could have freed us.

Now we know for sure it doesn't need us.
Endless babbling repeated tropes.
Posted by morons and losers and brain dead teen aged dopes.
Vacuous and vague , nothing said nothing heard.
Not a thought nothing original
not a word.

Are we free anymore? I’ve asked myself lately,
Sure, it seems so, but a few things are shady,
Well, more than a few; in fact most of our lives
Are controlled and well-governed like dogs kept on lines.

Last week my own neighbor was caught and arrested
For owning plants curing her cancer, depression,
Science speaks truth but the Law doesn’t mind
Their care is your sentence, not the healing inside.

We’re ruled by fear, I’ve come to conclude
It’s limiting consciousness, limiting mood
Forced to pay off all those bills in the mail
Or they’ll haul you away to community jail.

It’s not always this way—look at it like this,
We do have a large sum of freedom as kids,
We can eat, speak, dress, and play how we please
Before the real world arrives, subjugating this ease.

“Get good grades in school, be quiet, and listen,
Better cut the tomfoolery or end up in prison,
Repent all your sins or you can’t go to Heaven”
...Are drilled in our heads by the time we reach seven.

Yes, it is fear; now much clearer to me,
Yet sadly too subtle for the masses to see,
Some of us hope that things will get better,
So we dogs may finally stray from our tether.

the truest tragedy
of all poetry
is the fallacy
that every line you write
must be saddening.
irony is the counterculture of poetry.
i write death
to the community
and without a breath
the work is granted validity.
i write life
to the people
and without strife
my work is deemed feeble.

a poem is not a feeling
it's a moment.
there is no emotion
there is no reeling
it's not hopeless
it's not devotion
it's not healing.

your poem is now.

In the estates a baby cries.
In the streets a young man dies.
In the alleys they'll sell you drugs.
In the schools kids now use guns.
In the world there's so much need
Why won't the government intercede?