Zombies

Stressful is a song sung by the many.
Reiterated beyond twos and threes.
Fallen cakes clawing towards an untimely oblivion.
Why wander through a truth that screams our undying fiction?
Sensing rotting flesh reminding us that pain is in the eye of the beholder.
For God's sake are we preparing or propagating?
I once heard from a wise man that we are what we eat.
Do.
Fuck.
Know.
Thank god I didn't argue.
Point is, we are asking for it.
Beds made and remade,  still
looking like a hot mess.
Who in the fuck wants to be a zombie?!
It isn't Haiti's fault.
We look and sound like fools in the ears
of the greater good .
Twisting and turning in the sloppy mud of excuses .
I thank God everyday my name isn't Sarah Palin.
Mon Dieu!
I hope we all remember to love, because even if our
brainless bodies die our souls shall prevail.

Nuggets

Once upon a time there were nuggets.
Not the processed kind.
Not an unnamed sludge of pinks and blues.
I'm speaking, or telling, of a time when we
BELIEVED.

A truth

Feathers float down.

Hard to catch in my hands.

Tangible in my thoughts.

Redundant and still extremely annoying.

Strapped through and through itself.

I imagine so much. Imagine through and through.

Still it isn't enough.

Does it ever feel like it though?

Needles in the hands of others.

Repressed fire, smoldering like an awaiting phoenix.

Just not as romantic.

Pleading doesn't do,

feeling won't do, but I must.

Still it must.

There are not enough mothers in the world

to dry these tears away, but I have to, 

still I have to.