"Happy Mother's Day!"

If we all could only open our eyes,

And see the shrouded truth,

I’m sure we’d see it slathered with lies,

Scummy with seemingly learned, ideas loose—

They are that slip and slide, covering, covering,

Our individual psyche suffering

From suffocation and deceit,

Into a lowly, degrading defeat.

Authority makes us think we have

What they know we don’t,

And more disgustingly they won’t,

Give a passing glance—

At a second chance

To save our suffering mother earth,

A once cozy home and hearth,

May be gone sooner than we think,

If only the ones who speak

Of war and oil and economy,

Would set aside their pride,

And realize that their money,

Cannot be taken along—

When mother earth is gone.


Insatiable  was the one,

The one who wept in self-predilection.

In itself, so unsound.

And silence those unsound and their

Ensanguined malcontent.

Falsely beautiful as the autumn, with her leaves

So dead.

So spent.

Like the longing for that one lone truth.

Which has all but came and then it went.

For upon those days, you could have had, these

Things that were once despised.

Things that are lost, all of them now gone,

Yet now, they hush the cries.

"Just a rare psychological disorder"

Today we pray upon our knees,

Worshipping a confused man,

Not knowing of his own disease,

To make him think he had a plan,

And knowledge of how things are,

And why we’ve come this far,

In medicine and science,

To shun credible explanations:

For one man’s solemn degradation,

Oh! How the sensible grow dull,

Not so slow to mull

Over the true facts—

That this Jesus was an act

Of mental disillusion,

An uncanny intrusion

Of the future ways we live,

And people who still give,

So much worship and love,

To this unseen man above,

Who probably died confused

And not the least bemused,

That his own antics crazed the people,

Who later spear themselves through the present steeple,

Of ignorance and narrow minds,

Those respected, majestic kinds.

"Humanity Created God"

There is this  idea, that one supreme being,

Fashioned all of the universe.

Yet, sitting here thinking, all that I’m seeing,

Is a theory of the most perverse.

You fools will sing, and eulogize and tremble,

At hands that they know resemble,

Your own slick mitts, and your own slick wits,

Can’t save you from a very sad truth,

That when you uphold your creator,

All you shiverers and you shakers,

You found that there are some loops.

People created God,

Imagine that?

Everything could not be made in seconds flat.

You are worshipping magic,

Like silly, fumbling cavemen,

And you think you can kill, and be saved then,

By uttering a few words,

That is so absurd!

Well, whatever helps you rest your head,

Knowing that when you are dead,

There will be a place created by you!

Do you find that hard to construe?

There will be no houses, no fountains, no angels,

No golden spoons, and no sugar-spun sails.

These are human things,

Imaginings and dreams.

Less evolved minds created an answer,

An overrun, and a way overpriced disaster,

Of a god or gods—we formed them all,

So just remember that as you are ready to fall,

Down on your death bed, all shuddering—and wasted

Was your life praising, something you created.