a true confession

i dont write political poetry, and i stray from describing the horrors
inflicted upon the oppressed of society because i only write shit that i
know about my words embrace love with gilded wings flying it high into the
sun touched clouds placing it upon a throne of diamonds for there is
nothing more important in my mind than love for ourselves and our fellow
persons my poetry promotes understanding through self-expression because i
cannot tell you the answers you need to stop seeing the evils everywhere i
can only hope to open your mind and equip you with the weapons you already
have in order to tear down the wretchedness around you i speak of
consciousness because i uphold the theory of evolution and the next step is
mental so instead of some half assed attempt at attacking our governmental
corruption i bleed from the heart to tell anyone who will listen to wake
the fuck up and open your third eye take notice of the beauty of sheer
existence and relish in the inescapable irrefutable truth that an open mind
two feet on the ground and hands to hold the hearts of every beloved being
are all we have to validate our reality the rest is simply theoretical i
suppose i should be spending my time on picket lines screaming about
injustice and stopping globalization but too often my eyes wander the skies
instead and my arms fall to my sides palms open outwards because every
answer to every question is written within the whispy white clouds
streaking the clear sky and i can only take in so much before my mind
recoils and ecstatically i slump to the soft grass below gripping the earth
as tightly as my fingers are able to hold it in place at the same time
centering myself on the understanding that im just one weird insect
scrambling across the face of this cosmic bouncing ball towards utter
uncertainty and i couldnt possibly be more content than i am right now
simply being i write so openly and frankly about love as if my definition
rivals that of the dictionarys but at best all ive got is a fleeting
inkling of a description based off past experiences and a skewed sense of
idealism which will suffice for the moment but eventually im going to have
to come to grips with the fact that much like a gerbil trying to palm a
cannonball the matter is well out of my hands besides im no research
psychologist at best just a schmuck romantic with a pen and a pad and
perhaps a message to give but staying on topic much like a drunken acrobat
balancing on fishing line is much more precarious than it may
seem dancing around riddles and similies and metaphors all of perfect
clarity in my head anyway trying to arrive at some concise termination to
this extravaganza of poetic expression or whatever it may be i find
myself having said too much as usual because like too many metaphorical
allusions as pennies burst from a fifty pound piggy bank dropped off the
ninth floor when my mouth opens man words just fly