the room is filled.
toys,
candy,
music.
everyone is there,
smiling.

i awaken,
and
it's only you
that i see.

like an animal caught
by it's prey
am i.
trampled,
crushed,
small,
used,
and beaten,
discared
without question.
how can i live
in a world
where i do not
belong?

i hate humans,
i said to Him.
He pondered
and became
sad.
He loved them,
though,
as His own,
but they are
full of
hate.

i see the bright light
through my closed eyes.
the warmth of
heaven
fills me.

when i open my eyes,
though,
you are here,
in front of me,
and i am alone
in darkness.

the bright lights
dance in the rain.
a dark figure
is in the shadows.
it's large body
dances with the
lights,
demonically.
im scared,
but it cant hurt
me
behind these bars.

There once was a time when wooing women with carefully crafted words was a grand purpose. Significant sentiment, conveying desperate desire and intimate intent, were the staples of the ardent young man. His only recourse was to face the object of his affection, and, with tremulous tone and generous gesture, convey the earnestness of his cause from his heart to hers.
These matters of love should perfectly pierce her heart with incisive inflection and amorous articulation. Instead, our mobile, modulated, mute-able media turns awry this enterprise of great moment and dulls its course.
I now live in an age of digital despair where ghostly static and fast-food conversation are the new calamity of so-longed life. How much easier to bare the pangs of despised love when confronted by its whips and scorns, rather that face the eternal imagination of empty airwaves.

are you
satisfied?

i wish i
could have
loved someone
truly.
i am on my
solemn deathbed
surrounded by
white light.
i have spent
my life
alone,
every second
in solitude
and in
bitter loneliness.

no, i am not
satisfied.

America is an untended urn,
Not filled with wick of candle,
But with eyelashes burned,
Butterfly kisses of slaves to simmering plows,
As the Whigs, Mugwumps, and Know Nothings
Like Senates, praetors, and praefactors of old,
In new form, snare the grasshopper pulse of populace.

If we could once more lay our heads—like the universe
Rests its child’s soul in the lap of its native mother—
In our Indian maiden’s lap, where she once rolled
Maize flour and the dusted cornsilk of our eyelashes,
She could knead our eyes closed, and the stars would walk
Barefoot with summering spirit through our midnight homes.

Love is a left-mouse click, a flashing prompt,
For the cursor cross of a Crusade that never was,
And the knight who is broken on the scroll wheel,
And the lady in waiting who backspaces from the real.