No Love For The Lost Boy.m4a

Untitled.m4a

Drunk Up.m4a

Artist's Revolution of Love.m4a

Where do Lost Boys Go.m4a

Another untitled poem.m4a

Untitled Poem about listening.m4a

Homeless poem.m4a

There's a constant tug of war
of people trying to suss out
what we are doing this for
and what it is all about,
as we keep working out 
our exhausting doubts,

but Candice demanded 
we be candid 
when we hand in 
what was written 
using words that fit in 
flitting versus 
as we work this
worthless world’s shit 
into prose that pose 
as perfect poems.

We use art to show’em
that life is full of problems 
and to solve them 
we have to take syllables 
and evolve them 
into something more expressive, 
something less repressive 
that doesn't possess men 
but empowers them 
to be grander than 
the gardener who planted 
previous seedlings.

Untitled 1 - 1-22

The darkness comes
with a covenant of
of ill-intent,
the temperament
to spill the
blood of men
like Cain did.

We train kids
to revel in it,
swallowing
digital destruction,
entertainment
and games meant
to embellish
the gory glory
of wars,

and they do it for
the profits of
weapons dealers,
manufactures
who fracture
the spirit
that was once
sought after
in family life,
smiles, and laughter.

After that dark matter
has been dealt,
after the pain felt
becomes yesterday’s 
concrete reality,
with the finality
of loved ones
forever lost to eternity;

We turn potential allies
into certain enemies,
and market them
to sale Americans
on more violence.

Untitled 1 - 2-22

I am not grounded by this poisonous dirt
My roots do not fall into your social disease
This country is not the soil on which I am fertilized
Lies only serve to sap the earth of her nutrients

It is the world that birthed me 
Nurtured though sometimes hurt me

I am not a creature of my local society
But a sapling ready to spring from the entirety
Of humanity

These aged rings that mark my time
Can be found in every sound that nature mimes

My mind is free to be a grand improvement

The earth that birthed me is our shared history
In science, art, education, love, and poetry

My hands are leaves that branch forth from me

So when I flower blooming beautiful petals
When they fall like a warm autumn shower
When my limbs crack, snap, and bend 
Heavy with winter’s water laden wind
Lay me bare right here to wither and rot away

You, my beneficiary will emerge from the same dirt
But grow to be a brighter bigger more beautiful tree

The Tree.amr

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