Anonymous asked
Have you done community service ? The last poem sounds like so

Aye. I was a dumb teen/early twenties kid. Bored, dumb, and angry.

40 Hour Sentence

Swollen bellies line
up in the air conditioned
church basement
Societally discarded
wait for old, obese men
to serve hot dogs
(made of butcherly discarded meat)
There is no favoritism
Women, children, black, white, brown
all gather for encased flesh, green beans
A few ask what I did
that’s got me doing community service,
guilt ties a knot in my throat
Human flood yearning basics,
Surviving on            another’s
hand
Coming back here on my own
time, ignore the
bearded man hanging
from the wall
‘Come back for forgiveness,
help, COMPASSION’
Hopefully this time He won’t
forget to call your name
Join me down
at the soup kitchen
next week,
Gonna show             you
what good
conviction can          do

buddha-has-a-boner:

“So many people live within unhappy circumstances and yet will not take the initiative to change their situation because they are conditioned to a life of security, conformity, and conservatism, all of which may appear to give one peace of mind, but in reality nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future. The very basic core of a man’s living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun.” ― Christopher McCandless

buddha-has-a-boner:

So many people live within unhappy circumstances and yet will not take the initiative to change their situation because they are conditioned to a life of security, conformity, and conservatism, all of which may appear to give one peace of mind, but in reality nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future. The very basic core of a man’s living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun.” 
― Christopher McCandless

Warpaint

She applies her makeup
like warpaint
Christ, I hope she
destroys me

Still Gold

Lost, droned
Gone to seed via
photographs, diapers,
traveling for work
The world is new,
always changing
Despite purity being
plucked from your chest
by the continual rapping
of keyboards and five o’clock
dead lines,
lovers moving
on, rendering you an apparition,
substances to feel
childhood
It’s there,
in architecture of cities
you’ve never stepped foot,
in the waves of bodies
of water you
never
swam
Because RF was partially
right
nothing stays, only if you
don’t fight for it
You’re the alchemist
turning
inside your chest
red to Summer
car rides
along Lake Michigan
Contemporary discovery
More smiling
less sighing
Halcyon resurrected,
the heart stays gold

Grim

You track time
in hours
until a man
with a Ph.d
tells you ‘there’s
growth inside,
you have X amount
left’
So you begin measuring
               life in
memories, 
crossing things
off a list the responsibilities
of adulthood refused to relinquish
They push for finding 
spirituality, pray,
hope there is some
all loving force
willing to remove you
from the grim
reapers‘ waiting list
Scary thing is 
despite it all
the sun will rise 
and burn, same
as it did when your
eyes scoffed it’s 
rays
You love until it picks your
bones clean 
like a poor man
at a Thanksgiving turkey
Despite colors slowly
diminishing to
the subtle boringness
of LaSalle streets’ mid-80s businessman suits
Mere black, white, shades of grays
Death, the only one
that desires the lonely
Some friendly piece of 
advice;
Reject forgiveness,
take the feel of her 
skin to the grave, and
love the dirt
it’ll be your only friend
for quite some time

Trichromatic

We only experience hope
in a dream state,
reaching for the essence of innocence
in vices
Alcohol for truth,
sex for feeling,
money for needing,
substances for neglect
Conviction as a shield,
taking blows in intervals
We are buyers,
liars,
                           wanderers 
Yet speak in benevolence
Suffering in 
red, blue, and green
Trichromatic,
simple as that
We only speak 
all we urge in our sleep

Circle

The fan sits atop
paint chipped window sill
pulling
air from outside 
It’s coolness raises epidermis,
moves over dirty fingernails
Feel the benefit of 
blades rotating the same way,
never breaking it’s circle
It’s shadow casts against
my wall from hall lights
of the building next door,
I see no fan blades moving 
in the silhouette
Like love that’s gone to seed
Working to feel something,
Yet to heads turned towards
the wall,                  nothing’s
done
The art of making it stay, 
can’t master it
Passion,
cyclical