"Welcome to the collective hive,"
the M.C. from the center ring cries,
"where being numb means being alive!"

Acrobats, jugglers, and clowns arrive
with no festive feel—as everyone sighs,
“welcome to the collective hive.”

The crowd below climbs the high dive
grateful to lunge to their own demise
where being numb means being alive.

Individuals could not survive
from consuming the ringmaster’s lies.
Welcome to the collective hive

Black wings and bad boys
Loud music and crumpled paper
Born a secret and died the same
Here lies RoseBlack, what a shame

Yer lies I gurt 'ead and blunder
Never seen the lightnin'
Never 'eard the thunder.

Oft times as I drive along
I top a middling hill
and spy where I think that I belong
Mountains tall and blue and still.

Less than an hour I could be there
Where narrow roads all wear switch backs.
Where I once roamed without a care
Where rivers churn from boulders' stacks.

Yes. I see them and they haunt me
with memories of a youth long passed
along with those who used to be.
I see now time passes far too fast.

By the light of the morning sun
And the peace of all that's begun
Calmness stirs up hope emotion
In absence of chaos commotion

No whirling thoughts around my mind
But stillness that's the comforting kind.
Even breaths escape in gentle swathes
Unaware of the joy it gratefully saves.

Birds sing tunefully up high in a tree
And in this moment it grounds me.
Sending warm waves of gladness
Pushing out any thoughts of sadness.

Dear God,
My life's dwindling,
And my grace's losing mercies touch,
I'm frolicking in misery,
My pain sipping more fuel,
The fiery furnace stares at me,
And my stars turn a blind eye..

Dear God,
I've lived a life full of loopholes,
Dining with the opposite of hope,
My saviour begs me for a save,
And my helper has no help but me

He was born.
He died.
Somewhere in between he did stuff
That will be forgotten in 100 years...
But he had a hell of a good time doing it!

She tried to write a final poem
before her bell had tolled,
but took too long composing,
now her hand has turned to mold.

This poem is a locust cloud,
a sacrilegious sinner’s shroud
that pours its poison on the page
and rains with ruthless, righteous rage.

Though maybe it’s a cry for help,
a coyote’s howl or puppy’s yelp.
Or it’s a case of: quite absurd,
to waste the worthy written word.

And poetry’s a poor excuse
for pent-up pain to be let loose.
A poet, out of shame or pride,
should, in his soul, let sorrows hide.

It's all the same with everyone
I was here, I lived and died
Some will feel, good he's gone
there's those that can't decide

I'll be cremated, not buried deep
underneath the grass
No place for you to piss upon
but you can kiss my ash!