My experiences, my words

My experiences, my words
will not be stolen–
crafted by your past.
you post-modern punk!
valuing vagueness and ambiguity.
Can you ignore what I mean?
“It’s about me,” surfacing as you read.

My post-mortem evaluation awaits (if famous),
analysts decipher my colon’s meaning as
publishers tinkering with the nerves of this iddle brain,
editing for posterity so they can purchase more green.
Don’t be afraid to ask while I’m here.

For You

Surrounded by those not knowing
What God has been showing
To this desolate planet beneath
Deluged in disbelief.

What can I change of me
To change some part of you?
Cycles through my brain
And I can’t contain, these thoughts of you.
This anger roars
And my temper soars, to new heights
As I face this question one more time. . . .

Lost they call you under the steeple
You’d never carpool with those people.
You don’t hear a voice and look away
Hoping Heston might ring someday.

What can I change of me
To change some part of you?
Cycles through my brain
And I can’t contain, these thoughts of you.
This anger roars
And my temper soars, to new heights
As I face this question one more time. . . .

Not amazed at your daze due to your past
So tortured, I try not to ask
But truth is truth and we’re all frail
Too much riding on this to fail.