Seed

Sometimes,
I feel like a seed.
A potential inert,
A possibility to succeed.
So just put me in the dirt
And give me what I need.
How else can I avert?
How else can I exceed?

Other times,
I feel hurt.
Just a societal weed.
A potential victim on alert,
Nurtured only when I bleed.
I don’t mean to be curt,
How else can I plead?
How else can I divert?
How else can I be freed?

I am the hurt seed, the weed that’s only freed by the blood that it bleeds. Put into the dirt just wishing to exceed. Inert without encouragement, unable to succeed. Thus, I plead; Be alert to my need. Don’t divert or think me curt, I just want to succeed.

So just burry me
And perhaps this seed
Will grow
Into a weed.

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This poem is from the book A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken

The Knife Of Hypocrisy

The knife of hypocrisy
Cuts deep
My shadow’s blood
Leaks
Painting an already ruined floor

The boat’s mooring
Has come undone
Now we drift
Upon the whims of a moon
Covered by cloud

The dehydrated man
Dares not drink
Because he knows
He cannot swim

The monkey
Rages in the cage
He created for himself

The ant
Toils with its fellows
Oblivious of the destruction
Left in the wake
Of their queen’s rage

I write
Words on a page
Knowing they will never be understood
By those
Who inspired them

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This poem is from the book A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken