A Postcard For Home


My Dearest Allegory;


It is of hard times, that I report, I am a platform or two short. Either people are too angry or too self-absorbed or simply racist and uncaring. To get through with. It also seems, a good number of people are too culture shocked, by a quickly regime, to have the capability of dealing with it.

I hope this postcard, finds you well.

Love and kisses,

Respectfully Me.



Always be caring.


Self Preservation, Is It? -Aka- The Silent Abater


Hide in the thick of it,

when life isn’t right,

avert your eyes,

keep yourself blind,

worry only,

about your own kind,

not any other,

humanly brother,

for clearly,

they do not breathe,

they do not bleed,

for they are foreign,

so you must deplore them,

and whatever you do,

do not show any humanity,

you sick piece of shit.

Be Of Critically


What’s the worst that could happen?

Will things be better?

What do I imagine in five years?

All good question’s….


When all is lost,

it’s a cost,

too many have paid,

a history full of those paved,

of atrocity cards’ played.



I suppose one has to know,

when to sit and when to stand,

in the game,

of musical chairs,

when things are good,

they are good,

everyone has a seat,

but when things are bad,

like really, really bad,

some don’t belong,


being ridiculed,

although teaching us,

it’s okay to exclude.

In of an adults world,

it’s not dis-similar,

a scramble for,

what shouldn’t be a game,

it’s such a shame.

Chance, A Speculation


The poetry,

seems to be,

slowly low,

but for momentum,

it still spins,

alike cooling atoms,

force cooled,

as muses’,

are occupied,

some by hate,

some by fear,

afraid to shed a tear,

afraid to clear that plate,

but as it seems,

at least lately,

take up with that muse,

dance by dare,

be self-aware.

Reset For Days


I’m longing,

for clouds to reign,

fiercely whirling,

but of lately,

simply tepid,

with forecast’s,

of setting days,

minor displays,

in cubic measures,

closely doled,

never untold,

yet foretold,

by a metric fold.

In Reality -Aka- Of Realities


Another day,

after Dawn,

fawn’s along,

slowly ticking,

as slowly as,

it tocks,

silently so,

if you bypass,

the noises’,


made by those,

that won’t lay claim,

of course,

they can’t see,

or even hear,

what should be clear,

but what else,

should one expect?

If you closely inspect.