Strong Poetry

(!Caution ~ explicit!)

It's Called Humor and Sometimes we use it in our Conversations

I want a parakeet

And I want a violin

I love all the sparrows

And I love your strong chin

I long for the ocean

Vast ocean of sand

I can hear waves crash

And hold my grandmother’s hand

I’ll make the menudo

With patience and care

And cry only a little

For she used to be here

But my tears will be salty

And mixed with some lime

And a shot of tequila

My heart will be fine.

It’s not all the heartache

Of living this life

It’s the hung over mistakes

And laughing ‘til you cry.

I’ll always feel the same

As I did in the past

That I was in the rough

Until you gave me a blast

And the water did wash

And the sand pushed past

And the facets were shiny

A diamond at last.

My eternal jewel, my sonnet, my soul

All given a purpose, a meaning, a goal.

I’m sorry to have hurt both outward and in,

I’m sorry I fail and my confidence is thin,

But I’ll grab on the rail and stagger up a few more

Though fragile and frail, I’m not on the floor.

I screw things up quick and more than I should

But you cannot just quit when the going’s no good.

So tear-worn and tired, I’ll vaguely press on

Insulted, admired, engaged until gone.

This life it’s worth living, it’s worth dying for,

It’s reward it’s regret it’s a menial chore

It’s great when it’s good

Or by the skin of your teeth,

Some have all the luck

And some fall beneath

Pick up your burden and toss all the rest

Man or a woman, get it all off your chest.



The truth! Oh the truth, the truth is all I desire!





I want to leave this world with the truth on my lips.

I want it so bad even if it sinks ships.

Because the truth is the truth no matter how hard

You try to conceal or camouflage or discard,

It comes backs relentless, infinitesimally still,

It comes with a vengeance, it comes sometimes to kill.

But the death would be sweet at the hands of the truth,

Bitter and beautiful, like a bit of vermouth.

It would sink in your skin, like a passionate lover,

And trail it’s fingers and possibly linger,

Like the glazed death expression of a man who’s just gone

Or a man in a whore house, considering what he’s done.

The truth is quite easy and the Truth is quite clear,

It’s just all our fuck ups that make things a bit queer.

It’s our societal shackles, it’s our instinct to blame,

It’s fighting our urges and hiding our shame.

It’s the clothes on our backs, and the ones on the floor.

It’s the sickening secret that we have in the Core.

So give me a parakeet,

Give me a gun.

I’ll play the violin

And have me some fun.

The rifle will crack

The shot will go awry

The wine will be good

Though just a bit dry.

But pour out a bit

For the boys ‘over there’

And maybe their wives

And their girlfriends mon chere…

But don’t spill a drop

For the women who fight

They simply won’t stop

And find it a bit trite

They fight for their sons

They fight for their men

They fight for a privilege

With a voice with a pen

We constantly struggle,

We try to walk a line

Called bitches and yatches

Oh to you it’s just fine

Well if the roles were reversed

And you were confined

I might be a sexist

I might be inclined.

To keep all my power, my say and my wealth,

To keep it and choose ethics over your health.

If you were a machine that made babies it’s true,

I wouldn’t give a fuck what you wanted to do.

I’d preach and I’d ramble,

I’d kindly opine,

What you ought to do,

As though you were mine.

As though you had no thoughts or dreams of your own

Like you wanted to be pedestaled up on your throne

And chained up in gild and surrounded by things,

It’s the Truth who knows why the caged bird sings…