Written from my Make-Shift Bed

They rest atop our toil and sweat,
While we lay in make-shift bed.
They climb the steps of our good labour,
While we pave their way in favour.

A mask of honour hides their truth,
They sit within their seats uncouth
And guide us toward modern civility,
Protesting humanity and humility.

Jeweled blades rest in silken cloth,
The knife of Judas in his kiss
Which ran direct from cheek to back-
A subtle whisper into abyss.

How times have changed- how they speak amoung the hiss.
The sound is different now, it fits.
But we have heard how tongues can twist,
Catching flies like frogs through mist.

Wizened fools speak through ancient books
To keep that which ancestry took
And hoarded over centuries past,
These vaults protected by their class.

They rest atop our toil and sweat,
While we lay in make-shift bed
And clamber with our weary limbs
For that which makes us kin to kings.

A poem about choice

Which is it, in this time of erratic identity, that a true person should follow?

Some would say the heart, but the heart could change tommorow.

Others would concisely map the path cerebrally, indentifying intangebilities unequivocally, to achieve their goals seamlessly and conveniantly.

But when the map cannot be drawn so easily; this can be a bitter pill to swallow.

There are those who would follow success, climbing up the shadows of men in sharper dress. Hoping that their day of blessing from their masters, soon they'll greet- whilst grabbing blindly at their feet.

They rest in rented pits and wallow.

To follow desire could fill some with a fire so hot that the burning becomes more a yearning; until the flames are licking the edges of your being, and you are no longer seeing with your eyes but with your needing, and the needing becomes a "have to have it" often causing cataclysmic feelings of a maschocistic mental maul of self destruction; leading to a dread eruption...

Many would appropriate the manner of their peers. Taking bits and pieces, here and there, to quell their fears: that they are not so different from the rest- in how they speak, and how they dress. A common equillibrium of opinion can be met.

But there is still the heart, and the head, and the desire. There is still the need to feel a part of something greater. There is still the question "am I climbing the right ladder?", and there is still the want to embellish the world with with that which makes you different.

My feet have wandered each of these paths since I can remember; sometimes forking off and heading down one, then the other.

Some would call me indecsicive, I'm not so sure. I'll follow the wind.

A Letter to my Ciggarettes

A Regrettable Correspondance

My dearest and bitter-sweet Nicky-Tina,

Though I love the taste of your tip, as I mix your deathly breathe with mine; leaving me gasping for air and wanting you more- it pains me deeply that I must end our long lived relationship.

It's true we have shared many an hour of intoxicating pleasure, and your kiss still fills me with a guilty rush of angst-ridden serenity. Your scent still leaves me longing for you- like a puppy yearns for it's mother's breast- but I feel I can no longer share with you the moments I have so treasured, so frequently, for so long.

You leave a blackness in my heart which I can no longer bear to hold lest is suffocate me entirely. When you are away for one single day I cannot contain my need for your embrace.

Therefore, it is with the deepest regret, that I must sever this need from my heart before it consumes me, and I am destined to fill my heart with your darkness until I wither away.

So with this letter, my dearest and most bitter-sweet Nicky-Tina, I say goodbye to you for the final time.

Yours regrettably, but needfully, cravingly, and with great agitation,

Joe
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