"nigga good, b"

on a rooftop
the weight of the world
crashes down igniting everything into flames.
the night's sky
is painted orange red yellow
giving spectators a show
in the wake of a tragedy.
with everying
it ended
and people move to the next thing
but the story continues
it always continues
from the ashes
a figure emerges
alone
he surveys the damage
allows the situation to sink in.
he tries to reconstruct the surroundings
but only partial memories remain
he tucks them in a pocket riddled with holes.
the weather doesn't matter
it could be a sunny day
and to him
it would be the same as a thunderstorm.
in a time
where the council should be called
he keeps to himself
holds on to the remnants
knowing it doesn't exist.
time will heal the burns
and as one turns into another
strength will hold vulnerability together.
he sees the beauty in the pain.

someone will eventually ask
and he will semi-gloss the situation
leaving hints to negate follow ups
and when asked how he feels
only four syllables leave his mouth.

road less traveled

becoming a man
is less glorious than imagined.
it's about facing the mirror
not liking what you see
and accepting it
because now
it is your choice
whether or not
to make incremental changes.
the road to manhood
is paved with loss
defeat
and the question on how you react.

untitled

news spreads fast
but i ignore the claims.
many false starts
left me numb to speculation.
moments of insanity
lasts for a few minutes.
i skip over them without notice.
then there is the rare occassion
when gray and moist saturate the day
changes the scene.
thunder and lightning
crack smog filled skies
releasing the foundation of life.
ocean waves transport inland
shelter and warmth take priority
nothing moves
nothing matters.
my temporary friend
takes blame for everything.
i listen to its music
through a pane of glass
it soothes
invokes images of fire
flanked by a pleasure and a vice
the ideal setting
bookending the spectrum of a perfect day.

circles in a square

across the wasteland
i see tracks
trace them with footsteps
one in front of the other.
it talks to me
i listen
lost in the spell of dehydration
the wind pushes me
i fight it
i flow with it
the sun stays high
never moving from its place.
oh, how i miss the moon
she cooled the earth
lit the way
but those times have passed
and now
white jack rabbits
dance in front of me
their grins stay wide
bodies lean to the side
breaking gravity
they lead
i follow their philosophy
of smiles that never fade
cracked lips beg for water
voices tumble from the sky
fight for attention
i pay them no mind
this island only has room for one
and i am too busy ignoring myself.

a private place

only a few
make it to the den
and only the gifted
see the night.
by instinct or habit
the border seems closed
open to the curious
adventurous souls.
by design
the atmosphere is tranquil
boring to the touch
a place to relax
talk to silence.
contrary to belief
sunlight and bright colors
keep the air warm
soft music blocks
the worries of outside
simplicity helps madness calm.
clues decorate
they collect dust
until the wind blows.