I am rarely satisfied
with the words that I choose
to express myself with.
In the end,
I settle for an approximation
of what I had wanted to say.
How often do I find myself
falling short
of a truly beautiful sentiment?

They fingerpick on the guitar
while I toe pick on the ice;
my equipment doesn't fit as well
as each note in each composition they write.
After building brick walls in front of the net
their slapbass slapshots destroy my defenses
until their goals plague my crease.

While trying to set focus on my own game
loud cheering emits from various venues
for Mozart writing his first symphony at 6
Orson Welles directing Citizen Kane at 25
Johnny Depp originating that last line at 31
and Patrick Mahomes, whom I'm older than.

Competition is healthy, functional
until the unstable heat of boiling envy
releases the steam of resentment
building pressure in the machinery
until the screws pop out like marbles
knocking each other out of bounds.

Daftly defining ego as the self
and success as superiority
and achievement as relative,
I race against relatives;
each pace they gain
is a slap in the face in the rain
stinging while slipping while
blaming the elements
precipitating my demise.

Gripping graphite too tightly
vulcanized rubber goes wide
shattering through plexiglass
and into the rib cage
of an innocent bystander
dropping his concessions
to climb the stairs to the sky box
while I wait for repairs to be made.

here looking from away
two eyes
a voice was once in your shore
like fire
every step is a question
in heart

with stay rains

The poetry is not a one those comes out as the air
One need to keep ten directions opens on all four sides
For poetry to come; Eyes, nose, ears all need to be open
Compassion in the heart; poetry is the vessel for the pain
Poetry is the place to shout louder silently

Mountain, forest, bloom, sun and moon also
Love, affair, hatred, loneliness, misery and happiness
Rebellion, slogan, solution's soul is the poetry
Poetry is a tool of war
And the weapon to stop the war

Poetry does not comes out as easy as the air
Be ready for poetry, sit back relax and wait
All the day and night
Some times with the patience of motherhood
For Nine months or few more days

Nobody is wrong.
For, they perform as programmed.
Free will is not granted.
Tiny ants smirk as they follow the scent,
we do the same with big nostrils.