POEM ARE PROOF (Proof Laid Bare)

Will a chiseled coconut ever be the same?
Were all my efforts held in vain?
If proof laid bare beneath your feet,
Would thoughts of limitations repeat?
Can blemishes conceal wounds and scars?
And pollution reveal the moon and stars?
Can life be what it was before,
When satisfaction is something more?
Will you be proud when work is done?
Or will Earth set still beside the Sun?

SHUT UP POEM (Bad Dating Account)

I was thinking of making an online dating account. 

Here's what it's gonna read:

I like long walks on the beach...

By myself. 

I enjoy romantic comedies*

I frequent the gym...

Every other year. 

I'm a sensitive guy...

Especially when talking about my sexual potential,

I'm very shy when it comes to that. 

I'm a great catch...

Because my sex appeal is that of a fish. 

*Bring tissues, a lot. 

I HAD SEX WITH A POEM (Rapists)

One-night stands
With rapists are
So crippling emotionally.
They always wait
So long to call
You back, and
It's always with such
A deep and exhausted
Voice like they're
Out of breath or tired.
Like they're not even
Excited to talk.

What we had was special!
Admit it, Tommy!

LIGHT OF THE WORLD POEM (You Scare Me)

Some people are afraid
Of the dark,

I'm afraid of the light.
It bullied me as a kid.
The girls always liked

Light a little bit more.

A POEM IS AN IDEA (Flowing Person)

Your person flows
Away from me
My idealized face
Envelops you.
definition lacking
from your grainy exterior
I don't even know you.
but my desires conform
to you, the object of confusion
i say my thoughts just delusion
Give it time be. restraints
to the path
can it really be you are
or am i looking for my Vision?
you are you, not what I think
a forged love interest

POEMS ARE ROBOTS (Free Will)

Call it free will:
We carve our own.
But actions tend towards
Not my own.
I want to reconcile
Choices to one,
But free will
I have none.
The best of both
Or the best of one:
Free will
I have none.

RHYTHMIC POEM (Work)

In a fit of fury, I laid my hand down;
Strewn onto earth, my broken crown.
It lies beneath my withered soul,
In lives of men both young and old.

My life has meaning beyond the throne:
Conscience mine, of theirs their own.
The land is high, it goes beyond
What my feeble soul can take for long.

Give me the best and I'll give you my all;
Give me a rest and I'll savor the call.
Ambitions my own, but the will not mine.
Workaholics are great, their essence a crime.

THE TITLE POEM (Unpeeled)

a poet's mind

peeled like an orange rind

pathways blind

leaking, absence of time

Will you see my face 

or just my inner-workings?

Give me life or give me death

a tragedy is lurking

the words surface to my mind

like a penny in a couch

Teeter on my Mind

deeper, deeper south. 

SO MANY POEMS (Bedside)

So prolific with
My untamed thoughts
I love it, it completes.
To you I will abide
Though my contentness
Depletes. Life leaves me
Be, or leaves
Me hanging.
My thoughts abound,
Forever waking
The unfinished by day,
Into ink by night
Sitting beside
My bedside Light.

I VENT IN POEMS (Diary)

I come to you,
In times of need.
In times of grief,
Your thoughts I need.
Transportation:
Into a muddled past.
The feelings here
Will never last.
Your mind is mine,
It ought to be.
Let it be,
The diary.

TITLES FOR POEMS ARE HARD (Untitled 3)

Frustration, elation
The same sensation?
It is the core of my worries
This painstaking fluctuation.
I humbly hate cynicism
For it cripples us all.
The free will of doubt and apathy
An accelerated fall.
Ignorance is bliss,
Where am I amiss?
The growl, the kiss,
Hope's red kiss?
It overrides my wants, overrides my
Leaps and bounds away                  care
Ambition glares
My thoughts the world's,
Generations stare.

POEMS ARE LONERS (Lonely People)

The lonely people:
Quiet and recluse,
What are they thinking?
I wonder if it
Be the same.
The fear or the unwillingness
Let me in.
Open thoughts roaming free
I try to be
But you are you
and he is he.
Neither him nor her
Knows we.

GIRL YOU TRIPPIN, POEM (Train)

the path closes

set like train tracks

deviations rare.

unless mere roadblocks interrupt

safety, regret

I want my life free. 

able to invade

peer into, pore through

the path is free

blinders enclosing

rural isolation

that's why i can't see.

to be alone is to be with you

ETHNIC POEM (La Tina)

If I marry a Hispanic
Woman and I have kids
With her, I'm gonna
Name my daughter
Tina. That way if my
Daughter meets anyone
Hispanic and she introduces
Herself, she can be like,
Hi, I'm La Tina. And
They will say Oh, what
Country are you from?

No, my name is Tina. 
La Tina is Spanish for
"The" Tina. I'm not just
Any Tina, I'm "The" Tina. 

Oh, wow you're really 
Confident aren't you. It's 
Kind of off-putting but
Also good at the same time. 

Did you realize that La
Tina in Spanish is actually
The Tub in English? Shoot,
That puts a wrench in my plan

For my daughter future scenario.
Spanish-speakers should have
Thought this through better.

POEMS ARE ETERNAL (Eternal Contempt)

Live your life 

For it to be eternal

Prolonging what you call happiness

So that those in contempt

Can lay below you 

In eternal pain. 

You are better than them.

Your choices are solid and golden.

They deserve what they desire. 

You deserve what they really desire.

Their suffering distant, 

Contained, not yours

Out of reach, your happiness free. 

Emotions partitioned,

Eternal, free,

You say they serve

What they did was their own. 

Live in eternal bullshit

Eternal pleasure, 

Silencing eternal moans. 

WORDS ON A PAGE ARE POEMS (Interview)

I'm beginning to think I am
Underdressed because everyone
Else looks nice. I guess not
Necessarily because my button-up
Shirt looks just as nice as their
Plaid shirts and khaki pants
And nice shoes and such.

Maybe they just look more astute
And formal because they are white
And old. Also a lot of them are
Wearing glasses and have old
People smiles and glares like
They're talking to each other
And saying, Really? No way, 

Me too. That's great that such a 
Development in your life has
Happened Jeremy! I'm glad
We are catching up. But I
Sit here with my old shoes
Waiting for someone I do not
Know. All these paintings make

Me feel like I am in the
Renaissance or in some old rich
Person's house. I hope when
HeShe comes that I look good and
SheHe goes Cool, this kid is a 
Nice kid and probably listens to
His parents. And I will say

Things like, No way, Really?
Me three! That's such a weird
Coincidence. And HeShe will
Think, Wow, he feigns such
Interest in my noninteresting 
Conversation. I am interesting
I never knew that.

I DIGRESS, A POEM (Introversion)

Introverts have it easy
Their mind does not wander,
At least not past the bounds of comfort,
Of their own means.
I crave attention and people
Yet I crave sanity, and comfortability.
But my comfort lies in the hands
Of the fickle, shaky, crumbling down
Til my ashes are wet with an inability
For rebirth like the phoenix.
Sometimes I want to be alone with no interaction
But then I tire of lonesomeness.
I want it all, but someone to share it with.
My name heard, taught after my death.
I hate that concern, death is release
From the world not a constant
Marveling at false accomplishments.
Such a weird wish too, to be known
After death it's like predestination, we'll
Never know it to be true because
You're dead when you learn the truth.

POEMS ARE A THOUGHT IN TIME (Untitled 2)

The thoughtful are deprived
For their thoughts consume them
Rather than their body
Consume active stimuli,
Therefore introversion gives way to thought.

YOU ARE A POEM (Schizophrenia)

Stop telling me to read this poem! No,

These people are my friends.
Fine, I will but I don't
See any knives around.

Don't be scared.

KNOWLEDGE IS FOUND IN POEMS (Know1edge)

Prominent mathematician and
Famed artistic scholar Biggie Smalls,
Has deduced the following theorem:
According to nominal theory
And repeated conjecture,
Following the increase
Of money, it may seem
That a direct correlation
Involving a sharp rise in
Problems will occur. The
Exponential increase
In problems reaches a limit at
99. Of course, adds Jay-Z, this
Conclusion is made void when
Bitches are substituted or mixed
With the independent variable,
Money, this conjecture proves invalid.

POEMS ARE LIKE LIFE (Life is a Game)

Life sucks, and
Then you die.
Or better put: Life sucks, and
Then you discover Life Cinnamon,
Which is slightly better,
Then you die.

Or even better put: Life sucks, and
Then you park your
Car at Countryside Acres or
Millionaire's Estate and wait
For the game to end,
Then you pack up the board game
And age slowly, then
You die.

I think there was something left out of this common phrase too:
Life sucks, and
Then you die,
And in between these two
Events your cynicism has
Greatly reduced
The quality of life for us
Optimists. Thanks,
Cynical asshole.

Or an alternate version:
Life sucks, and then
You die, but
I receive eternal life, because
I am a righteous Christian,
And you are
A heathen, barbarous fool.

POEMS CAN BE SAD (Despair)

The convalescence of emotion,
Bleeding of the heart
Causes rising of its oceans.
Broken ships of lovers depart;
Leaves fall.
Fall turns to winter
Covering broken hearts
That lost love has splintered.
No cure found,
Growing like cancer
Limitless, no bounds.
Questions with no answers
Numbed feelings
Novocaine smothers.
Caring eyes directed
Towards depressed eyes receded,
The heart only heals
Through other hearts' beatings.

WHO WROTE THIS POEM (Fruits of Desire)

I once new this
Woman. Her name was
Desiree. We called her Dez,
For short. Apparently, she discovered
A fruit very similar
To a pear.
She called it the Dez-pear.
The seeds were called
Pits of Dez-pear. You could buy Dez-pears
For two dollars a pound. Dez
Invested much money into the fruit.
The fruit was commercially
Unsuccessful because of the name.
Last time I saw Desiree, she
Was living in a box, eating a Dez-pear.
She threw a bunch of
Pits of Dez-pears at me in
A crazy fashion. I
Called the police.

SO MANY POEMS (Everything)

What we know
Is everything
That's why there's nothing left.
Sleep calls, the future calls, experience calls
And we answer.
To me it is scary, but solitary.
I just want that.
My steady path towards introversion:
A yellow brick road towards sanity.
But maybe the end is deceiving likewise


Why do we crave recognition?
We can't see ourselves when we're dead.
I still yearn for it.

THIS POEM IS NOT TEMPORARY (Contemplation on Life)

I love my life
Because pain is temporary.
I hate my life
Because the good times escape.
Looking back
I have nothing to look forward to.
Maybe I can place an event in
The future, to fill the void.
Why can't my future be valued
On elation, in joy?
Even stability can be frightening.
If life were just more crooked
Then maybe that would be appealing too.
The experiences we yearn for
I wonder if they are necessary.
Will they improve my quality
Of life?
That's why an afterlife has to be there.
Shouldn't the opportunity
To fluctuate between good and bad
Be ever-present?
Or else life cuts off at either
A good or bad ending
Which doesn't seem very fair.
Life can then be labelled as only
Two words, regrets or fulfillment.
It should not be labelled,
Or complete.

FEEL OBLIGED TO READ THIS POEM (Obligations)

I'm obliged to follow,
I'm obliged to think,
Obliged to return
The forged link.
But to wait is foolish,
To wait is lacking;
Keep the line steady,
The border is cracking.
Between the realm
Of the active and lazy
Lies a compelling force
That keeps me brazen.
The force cripples,
The force blinds
To a life silent
Contained to the mind.
My obligations flutter
Around persistent thoughts,
A tabled feeling,
An ellipsed dot.
Leisure's distant,
It keeps its space.
Productivity
Took its place.

TELL ME A POEM (Tell me)

Tell me, is there always something waiting.
Day turns to day, but the
Night continues.
Purpose is a goal, but a goal just
Residue. Life's cycle just a cyclist
Pedaling without end.
Run Forrest run
To feel what is unnecessary.
Let it be
But what will it become?
Pain trembles the still waters
Of neglect, or hope?
I wish indifference could spark faith.
Not without providence

POEMS ARE ME (All I have)

I am
      What I
What I       am
           am                                  Am I
Something  I am                             nothing?
          that
Knows
          not what it is

                         So many
                         Acquaintances
Acquaintance      I have but
                         No friends
                 Family    Family
Family
         Myself  Myself  Myself              My Goals
Family
               Family  Family             Girl

Acquaintance
                       Acquaintance

MY LAST POEM, JK (The Last)

On a bed
Trapped inside my head
I am dead. Maybe
Not a bed, maybe a
Box or wooden-colored
Coffin with my feet
Outstretched  and my toes
Curled. If you find me
Don't find my will or
Conduct an autopsy
Or poke my dead body
With a stick like
A pre-pubescenet
Pack of teenage
Wolves, but they are
Just kids. Take my
Journals and my
Other journals and
Glue your eyes to
The sticky inked paper
And read and then
Read then contemplate
Then read again then
Spread,

            Them to other
People and say this guy
Is dead but he
Wrote a lot of jokes
And poetry and
They are kind of cool:
"You should publicize
This stuff, wow. And
That kid was like
Seventeen? Maybe
He was a genius or
Something?" And then
They will not be mine
But the whole world's
Preserved on paper
With ink and terrible
Penmanship that some
People will not know
How to read, but
They will try.