The Perplexed Poet's Perch

the sinister conversion heart rotted on the spit apathetic perversion all we have left of it we have truly lost our way a trillion times over avarice now owns the day we the people shoulder the burdens of the wealthy the fees that they inflict the pulse no longer healthy reflected in edict the documents are dusty founders turning in graves it's getting kind of musky the foundations betrayed the sinister conversion heart rotted on the spit apathetic perversion all we have left of it I saw these cold tides turning establishment of fees have paid with all my earnings these costs of poverty we have truly lost our way a trillion times over avarice now owns the day we just push the boulder the hill keeps getting steeper lines constantly redrawn the put upon seem eager to place these shackles on the covenants are crusty founders turning in their graves it's getting kind of musky showing signs of decay the sinister conversion heart rotted on the spit apathetic perversion all we have left of it I saw these cold tides turning establishment of fees have paid with all my earnings these costs of poverty we have truly lost our way a trillion times over avarice now owns the day methods growing colder laying waste to safety nets and the aid that matters to fund yachts and private jets excess served on platters machine no longer rusty for our blood soaks the gears the air is sour and musky so much it may not clear the sinister conversion heart rotted on the spit apathetic perversion all we have left of it I saw these cold tides turning establishment of fees have paid with all my earnings these costs of poverty we have truly lost our way a trillion times over as we're feeding this decay we die of exposure (06/16/26)

when I turn the lenses inward used to not like what I'd see there were days the pain had hindered who I thought that I would be was a man of many faces a mask for each occasion as time would apply its graces with healing motivation making scars out of the wounded fusing mask with tainted flesh the hard edges were obtunded still the days brought cuts so fresh that I never saw it coming times like this when I would feel that the person I'm becoming would be able to be healed when I turn the lenses inward used to not like what I'd see there were days the pain had hindered who I thought that I would be was a man of many faces but each facade was a lie the way the wounded embraces was the very way that I came with grace to all the scars left where the blades had let them in gave them more than just my last breath had hope to be whole again with a process of blood-letting as the pen left crimson stains was the heart's way of forgetting moving on from this refrain when I turn the lenses inward used to not like what I'd see there were days the pain had hindered who I thought that I would be so played the part of the injured was a role penned just for me 'til a new shape had been rendered one they fitted with a fee was a man of many faces who had faced many a cost once believing in these places that too much of me was lost that I'd only get back traces of what came before the scars with a sleeve bereft of aces and no hand there holding cards so I never saw it coming never thought it could be real that with all of this succumbing I would find the means to heal when I turn the lenses inward used to not like what I'd see there were days the pain had hindered who I thought that I would be so played the part of the injured though no mask is worn for free still all that had been surrendered came back eventually was a man of many faces and each they served a purpose I am grateful for their graces am thankful for their service they created needed distance while allowing wounds to breathe like a balm over existence so it wouldn't cut as deep with the pen to clean the wounds out should an infection set in with the madness getting tuned out giving it less chance to win when I turn the lenses inward used to not like what I'd see there were days the pain had hindered who I thought that I would be (06/15/26)

I'm not a man of action here resting on my laurels I've got no satisfaction clearly bankrupt of morals completely out of fashion embroiled in many quarrels am here to write the caption to give form to the horrors I'm not a man of action for I am a man of words by no means a distraction nor the whim of the disturbed with some lines gaining traction while the others go unheard magnifying infractions and the culling of the herd there was no way to know it when I first picked up the pen that I'd become a poet and I would do it again with nothing to show for it but the words I'm carving in stained with ink as I pour it over scarred and fragile skin I'm not a man of action read the cards there in my hand I have not done a fraction of what I know that I can was part of the attraction and always part of the plan everything's a transaction from what I now understand there was no way to know it when I first picked up the pen that I'd become a poet and I would do it again with nothing to show for it but the words I'm carving in stained with ink as I pour it over scarred and fragile skin I'm not a man of action yet there's action in the verbs same goes for the reactions and the identities purged all part of the abstraction and of that which is observed am here to pen the caption for I am a man of words there was no way to know it when I first picked up the pen that I'd become a poet and I would do it again with nothing to show for it but the words I'm carving in stained with ink as I pour it over scarred and fragile skin (06/14/26)

I came for the rhythm I came for the rhyme the former was given before it was time the latter was bidden at first show of signs I came for the rhythm I came for the rhyme I picked up the inkwell I bled for each word sentenced to this cold hell with what was fostered the muses were confined kept there in the cage and all of them resigned to suffer this rage I picked up the inkwell and started to spill these words meant to dispel the weight of this will with this path undefined itself a blank page and all of it designed to make me engage I came for the rhythm I came for the rhyme all of it was given none of it was mine that truth wasn't hidden it showed every time I came for the rhythm I came for the rhyme I picked up the inkwell bled deep for each piece each cut was its own tell repeated at least once for each collection showing persistence as each introspection fashioned resistance I came for the rhythm I came for the rhyme way to breach the schism as I set to climb cliffs of unforgiven martyred in their time I came for the rhythm I came for the rhyme I picked up the inkwell picked up the habit I welcomed this old hell as would an addict the muses by design danced upon this stage the suffering sublime meant less on the page I came for the rhythm I came for the rhyme the former was given before it was time the latter was bidden at first show of signs I came for the rhythm I came for the rhyme I picked up the inkwell was then when I heard the tolling of the bell with each and every word (6/10/26)

where once I believed find now I cannot heart penned to my sleeve somehow I forgot why it was conceived I once cared a lot where once I believed find now I cannot time is ever-changing in truth, so are we always rearranging who we are to be broken into pieces time and time again scar tissue increases with reconstruction time is ever-changing influencing all with ways of estranging what's penned to the wall from its very meaning purpose is unmoored still it bears repeating this I can't afford where once I believed find now I cannot my heart sought reprieve thought it worth a shot yes, I am aggrieved gave it all I've got where once I believed find now I cannot time is ever-changing the world is in flux saw where it was aiming but not where it struck still I kept it burning as long as I could flames of hope all yearning just to see the good where once I believed find now I cannot heart penned to my sleeve somehow I forgot why it was conceived I once cared a lot where once I believed find now I cannot time is ever-changing in truth, so are we always rearranging who we are to be broken into pieces some forever lost scar tissue increases it costs what it costs yes, I am aggrieved gave it all I've got where once I believed find now I cannot (05/27/26)

I crawled into a hole could see no way out of for darkness was the goal a point I was proud of but it cost me my soul just to be allowed love I crawled into a hole could see no way out of I came here a junkie taught that love was the cure it made me feel something in that moment was sure it had to be magic panacea of mind made all the more tragic when I left it behind I crawled into a hole could see no way out of for each second it stole the heart was endowed love with pieces of the whole there beneath the shroud of that old ill-fated hole I knew no way out of I came here a junkie believed love was the cure was praying for something beyond what I'd endured such things would be magic panacea of self I became an addict for the way that it felt I crawled into a hole could see no way out of dictated by the toll I now lived in doubt of for I had not a soul no token of loud love I crawled into a hole not meant to crawl out of I came here a junkie looked to love as the cure knew it was the one thing that would always be pure I tasted its magic panacea of heart the length of my habit hell, it became an art I crawled into a hole could see no way out of for darkness was the goal a point I was proud of but it cost me my soul just to be allowed love I crawled into a hole could see no way out of needed to feel something needed life reassured I came here a junkie thought that love was the cure (05/25/26)

poly want a market betting on the strife everything's a target everything in life odds aren't in your favor house holds all the cards place your bets and savor life without regard Rob E. wants a market that still has a soul not one that's so dark it's under the control of the apathetic cogs of the machine such builds are pathetic thrive on being mean care to make a wager I wager you would we are all just players long been understood cruelty is selling always making bank darkness so compelling it's now pulling rank poly want a market void of decency compassion discarded in its infancy humanity worsens with every bet placed no form of exertion just utter disgrace Rob E. wants a market that's not so corrupt see how this all started know that we are fucked all our worst impulses fully on display finger on the pulse is feeling it decay care to make a wager I wager you would we are all just players long been understood cruelty is selling always making bank darkness so compelling it's now pulling rank poly want a market betting on each blow everything's a target the new status quo (5/24/26)

only one 86'd here is me innocent, but they ain't gonna buy it for one time she was quite the homie and though we were both children at the time it seems that Sally's last name is Comey and so I too am now charged with a crime she sold 86 be-fore day seven apparently that was all it took now the right is rolling in hog heaven labeling the lot of us as crooks anyone who's shopped at Sally's Seashells especially if you ever served then you're an accomplice that's what Kash sells and your prosecution is deserved Sally sells seashells by the seashore which I really never gave too much thought lately though life's taken a detour and now I think about her quite a lot at one time she was quite the homie and though we have not talked for quite a while Sally's last name it seems is Comey and so Sally and I are here on trial so perhaps the moral of this story that I only now have realized any can be sacrificed for glory on the watch of old Kash Crazy Eyes bid farewell to seashore shell arranging lest you draw that crazy bastard's ire he sees the beach side coups that you're staging he's gonna prosecute you for his sire Sally sold seashells by the seashore but that was before Justice came to dine she ain't selling nothing anymore and only thing she's serving now is time (05/06/26)

where once I cast a shadow I now find an empty page the light was all I had though landing on this tattered stage I've seen the tables turning and I know what those acts mean the potential for earnings cut out of here in the spring where once I cast fated die I now roll but ash and bone for we no longer ask why we just submit to the throne I have seen this errored way now become the only path gilded furor left in play only room for writ and wrath we cannot turn a blind eye and then still expect to see operators standing by who are there for you and me where once I bled in battle I now find the tap is dry enough to have me rattled but is it here I shall die I have seen hope returning have watered it with my tears the lack of light concerning hasn't been this dark in years we cannot turn a blind eye and then still expect to see operators standing by who are there for you and me hang it up, force perspective drop out of the fucking fight follow your own directive and be your own fucking light where once I looked for answers I now turn to reconcile the potency of cancers that we churn out with a smile I've seen all that tomorrow could bare if we would grow it but we breed only sorrow and what's worse is that we know it we cannot turn a blind eye and then still expect to see operators standing by who are there for you and me hang it up, force perspective drop out of the fucking fight follow your own directive and be your own fucking light where once I cast a shadow and I had long been resigned to be there but for battle now I come only to shine I have seen hope returning have watered it with my tears let's set these bridges burning not been there for us in years we cannot turn a blind eye and then still expect to see operators standing by who are there for you and me hang it up, force perspective drop out of the fucking fight follow your own directive and be your own fucking light (05/05/26)

the chorus faded out in the night their words falling like sands through the glass and the prophets blinded by the light they could never see beyond the past while our heroes are all digging graves and the poets sing out by the stones oh no, now nothing here can be saved no there is nothing left to call home we struggle to make sense of it all as we cradle that last remnant spark leaving these words written on the wall the sum of these whispers in the dark the waters keep rising around us with a volatile stain on our tongues and still we're not sure how they found us or if that brand new day has begun so we have to just keep on dancing with the spirit of hope in our hearts while this dark tide keeps on advancing we have to find new ways to impart the medium is not the message we can take the pen, draw our own arc don't have to stay within this wreckage can be more than whispers in the dark the champions are on vacation the evermore has all but expired nothing to ease, there's no placation the day we seized had long been retired and our heroes are buried under the very ground they were sent to clear once battle cries, now distant thunder barely audible, no one can hear saw reflections of fortune's favored and we believed that it left a mark 'twas not the start of something braver thus began the whispers in the dark the armaments have been surrendered the blood we spilled has been painted o'er our resignation's long been tendered and the job's been posted on the board with what's left of hope, we're still dancing upon feet both swollen and blistered still waters rush in, tide's entrancing and all that's left, are but the whispers (04/30/26)

I've been playing this role so long I no longer know who I am scene one...take one...action and the boy became a poet he cut his teeth a broken bard took a piece then, he would owe it his wrists lay open from the shard he bore his heart for all to see the rest he hid behind a mask the fragile organ on his sleeve broke without ever being asked and that was when he traced the scars to before the lines and laughter found masks extending back so far seems he was always an actor how did everything go so wrong how did this get so out of hand I've been playing these roles so long I no longer know who I am scene two...take one...action the poet became a pauper he's forever a broken ward treading in a depth of water far from any visible shore knowing that at any minute his arms and legs could just give out but he's here, he's long been in it and this is what his life's about so he holds there in the struggle turning it all into an art it is a piece in his puzzle yes he was born to play this part I've been playing these roles so long I no longer know who I am it seems this is where I belong was always penned into the plan scene three...take one...action the pauper became a fable a story told as a warning what was left upon the table would keep the lines of ants forming not sated by the scraps they tossed what with all of their strings attached as such his appetite was lost and he would never get it back all replaced by primal hungers for teeth that never took a bite is it really any wonder that he was unfit for this fight I knew the words to every song yet I was not part of the band I've been playing these roles so long I no longer know who I am scene four...take one...action the fable became an echo a broken track set to repeat he was unable to let go of that which would bring his defeat for it was part of his nature an innate rhythm, out of time was his very nomenclature the way he always spoke in rhyme growing fainter and more distant and as such, much less impactful the desperate and persistent ringing off walls of the castle I've been playing these roles so long I no longer know who I am wonder if there will come a dawn where I'll finally understand ...cut (04/27/26)

I'm not a violent person but I'm thinking violent things as the world around me worsens with all of the madness that brings and I see you breaking Justice even branding her as your own you have got me screaming “fuck this!” and opting for the sticks and stones so if not by the voice or vote then you leave us only the fist and with your foot here on our throat afraid that it will come to this I'm not a violent person but thinking of violent acts with corruption and coercion the county has gone off the tracks a dementia-ridden despot just cashing in and dropping bombs got me in my feels and guess what I'm 'bout ready to get it on so if not by the voice or vote then you leave us only the fist and with your foot here on our throat afraid that it will come to this I'm not a violent person but I know how to draw some blood and you come with this incursion and I'll fucking unleash a flood I'm a lover and a writer but do not make the mistake to underestimate the fighter who's ready to make his debut so if not by the voice or vote then you leave us only the fist and with your foot here on our throat afraid that it has come to this I'm not a violent person but I'm thinking violent things as the world around me worsens with controlled burns and suffering (04/24/26)

once a jester and a junkie written word, my drug of choice each passage was written bluntly just the way I used my voice as the years brought tear and tarnish masks were worn away to bone and the wages were all garnished to add gilding to the throne once a jester and a junkie upon this altar I bled had a back so full of monkeys lived with a gun to my head and I kept pulling the trigger with each verse I inked in blood homage paid to the gravedigger six feet down beneath the mud raise a tombstone for the poet carve the words into the stone all that he has to show for it rot that infected the bone once a jester and a junkie no other way to survive heart had no way to keep pumping beyond the lines here that I've scribed from its most sacred crimson each more potent than the last every bar here marks my prison the words of my epitaph raise a tombstone for the poet carve the words into the stone all that he has to show for it rot that infected the bone and hope that rendered him useless left him longing, out of touch open to the pen's abuses with the pages filling up once a jester and a junkie just an old romantic fool fragile like my name was Dumpty falling like it was a rule every year, they cut with cunning yet the blade was in my hand long empty and yet still running toward the grave as was planned raise a tombstone for the poet carve the words into the stone all that he has to show for it rot that infected the bone and hope that rendered him useless left him longing, out of touch open to the pen's abuses with the pages filling up once a jester and a junkie written word, my drug of choice each passage still written bluntly just the way I use my voice (04/23/26)

he learned how to pen a picture but it came at such a cost for his skin would burn to blisters 'fore the flames would scorch it off for the verse, his fated scripture penned to pages, made a pyre he learned how to pen a picture but not to avoid its fire and he woke within the darkness found it to be his vocation it is what would first spark his introspective articulations he burned just to pen a picture he held the pages aloft thought if they became a fixture he'd somehow avoid the costs for the verse, he'd blend a mixture two parts blood and one part tears he burned just to pen a picture and he stayed that way for years there he woke within the darkness found it to be his vocation it is what would first spark his introspective articulations returned now to pen a picture treading the path of the lost it proved a potent elixir no matter what it would cost for the verse, his fated scripture he would dare to chance the flames returned now to pen a picture but the words all ring with blame and he woke within the darkness found it to be his vocation it is what would first spark his introspective articulations he learned how to pen a picture on that day the line was crossed left no captions nor descriptors too overwhelmed by the costs (04/23/26)

start the revolution without me I've no faith left in my fellow man where I once believed so devoutly that inherently good was the plan well now I see things much more clearly your actions have spoken so loudly currency is all you hold dearly so start the revolution without me it took place over generations with avaricistic sheen doth it shine and it came to govern our nation by the will and whim of bottom lines life subsidized for the interests of corporate check writers and boards who once upon a time thought it best that life be something most can't afford spread the strain 'cross the plain in their reign until their will just became the way gave us targets ill-fitted with blame while the system moved to pay-to-play so the days were filled with the struggle that would leave little room for much else forced into this financial muzzle as each of the daily blows were dealt so start the revolution without me I've no faith left for my fellow man where I once believed so devoutly that inherently good was the plan well now I see things much more clearly your actions have spoken so loudly currency is all you hold dearly start the revolution without me it took place over generations to drain all the hope from the reserves to break us down with these frustrations that you would have us think we deserve infighting and so much division key parts of this dark intervention fuel poured on the fires of derision with the greediest of intentions with a slate full of hate you would bait those who sought someplace to put their rage the infection, it proved far too great to be confined to a single stage as such we witnessed tables turning that we long thought unable to turn we also saw some bridges burning that we had been warned not to let burn so start the revolution without me I've no faith left in my fellow man where I once believed so devoutly that inherently good was the plan well now I see things much more clearly your actions have spoken so loudly currency is all you hold dearly start the revolution without me yes, start the revolution without me I cannot bare this weight or its pace where I once believed so devoutly I think the same lines would be retraced our ideas all trapped in boxes no insight passed what we've pushed proudly tides so full of pox and toxins start the revolution without me (04/17/26)

let's bridge the divide the unartful schism we'll build it so wide this Arc de Fascism there's no triumph here nothing that is sacred traded it for fear to cash in on hatred policies made clear objectives laid naked in less than a year all good will's been wasted let's bridge the divide this unartful schism we'll build it so wide the Arc de Fascism there's no triumph here just cowardly cronies paid to interfere and give the child trophies he rides them with cheer all his little ponies derides them with jeers on whim of neuroses let's bridge the divide the unartful schism we'll build it so wide this Arc de Fascism there's no triumph here no longer viable since it became clear we're not reliable sowing distrust steers bonds to be friable there's no triumph here that's undeniable let's bridge the divide this unartful schism we'll build it so wide the Arc de Fascism there's no decorum it's all tantrums and tears same with the quorum who would govern by fear people? ignore 'em they've no voice at this tier not in the forum there is no triumph here (04/16/26)

well we bid farewell to the crown with its cold, cruel disconnects and blood was spilled to hold that ground a fight that today resurrects with a tyrant in the White House his enablers on the hill staying quiet as a church mouse the nation suffering his will for the greed of corporations who know just how to pull his strings so they bow in subjugation to this mad, infant puppet-king do whatever to appease him for they believe that is the way to spare themselves of his dark whims long as they can still pay to prey proving what we have all long known exposed to such malice and vice the one percent will gnaw that bone while We the People pay the price two hundred plus years just to fail to cede it back to wretched crown to let some narcissist just flail and burn all of it to the ground with so little constitution here now the body bends and breaks figments of the institution wash upon the shores from his wake just remnants of the forefathers those sad impostors in their stead there siphoning from the coffers and presiding over the dead fealty to their crowned ruler they pledge themselves to the confused they sold their souls to this loser to walk a sad mile in his shoes now the scales they lay in ruins and the foundation's full of cracks speaks to the nature of humans collectively we turn our backs on the virtue that is mercy on our compassion's majesty perhaps we were never worthy of the gift of democracy double, double toil and trouble with 47 turns at bat now we stand here in the rubble ground was solid, when just like that system folded like was paper all its fragility laid bare beneath promises of greater so ignorant and unaware two hundred plus years just to fail to cede it back to wretched crown to let some narcissist just flail and burn all of it to the ground (04/14/26)