From The Bottom Of The Ocean

 A catastrophic call to our creator

from the crypts kept

within the darkest waters.

A cry into the sea-

Almighty answers with the waves that be,

which harbor an element of doubt

as this body is cast about

the blackened tides of hope.

Twisting & turning, sea tangled & trapped,

drowned down, this man found

a way to bow and pray

from the earth

at the end of the ocean.

As death is dawning

the Whale is yawning

face to face, now

floating from the abyss.

The shores of Assyria don't see

a light in the deep, a concept to keep

of split seas and the oath to stay afloat.

Speak Up

 The soft-spoken innocence of peaceful people, 

the constant motion in my mind. 

The value of the universe and my menial achievements.

I can not silence the declaration of disordered ideation.

Ethics eat away at mythology,

giving finance to the greater good.

Where is the morality?

In a system of spiritual liberties,

we are as free as we are captive

by the limitations of neutrality.

 

Society Creates Them

The quiet hum of havoc

in the atmosphere overcomes

the echoes of empty impressions.

 Victims everywhere,

of unpopular opinion,

depart and decide who to be.

Oh, I wonder why

it's essential to evolve

in an advancing world,

where change isn't welcome.

Adaptation in our nation

is the acceptance of failure,

and the freedom to succeed.

Happiness, prosperity, and sobriety

have not been guaranteed.

Keeping yourself content

is the curse of considerable accountability.

And how contentment has been achieved

is concerning in each way believed.

Who will you be, 

the man sitting in the corner of society,

or the miserable mess of over medicated opiates?

Upper Management

 A muddled mess of a man

brings himself back to life.

Society wants his misery

for the sake of artistry.

Industry would take him, 

make him militant. 

Brace him for a pocket full

-then pilfer his passion

through the subtle push of suffering.

Twisting him till he's braided

into industry and society,

there is no escape.

He is a strand of industrial elbow grease,

valued by no venture handed to him.

As he searches for himself,

fulfillment will scarce fall into industry.

A muddled mess of a man has no value,

he is disposable,

dragging himself around a dead end job.

Outside Thinking

 My mind is a mess,

stumbling around my thoughts.

There it is,

the chaos and confusion

of my creation. 

By my shaky hand I say,

I will not be cornered by my own canvas,

painting the world to be

a blurry and bizarre place.

The world is not black, white, or grey,

it's muddy with our true intentions.

I can not see the corruption come over me.

A lie made by man,

the introspective essence of esteem.

Why lie to ourselves?

It does not build character,

it breaks our confidence.

Alone in my mind,

I find the freedom

to be blind to bitter notions.

A Beggar's Thoughts

Standing on the streets of my mind,

desperate for some change.

What can you spare for me?

Can you spare me, stranger?

Spare me from cynicism,

the broken shoulder of philosophy.

There's an element to suffering,

one I'm quite familiar with,

for without pain,

there is no power.

I am a beggar in my mind;

where passion is currency,

where consideration is a drug to crave,

where desperation settles deep within my spirit. 

Desperate for an eye's attention,

here comes dopamine's phony affection. 

Deflated egos everywhere

are familiar with the feeling

of ups & downs, and sideways looks.

A beggar knows misfortune

and her dreary streets to sleep.

Home is a dream for discarded sentiments,

a treasure, a concern to keep.