The rich man, with a beautiful face
Poses for a perfume commercial.
He says, "You get what you deserve."
I do not see this, anywhere, being true.
I see men like him, with no good,
Swimming in gold and whores.
I see men who have made less mistakes,
Though more taboo, destitute.
I've seen men, who did no wrong,
Still lost in a see of the world's forgetfulness.

I look at the flowers, they come up over the year
In their times. In little clusters they bloom.
Just like people, the more beautiful ones appear
For a short time, so distinct, but surrounding them
Are weeds. And the weeds thrive all year long.
But, the flowers are distinct in their times.
And they spring up, and they die... until winter
When there is only the Rose Hip and the Holly Berry.
He puts his finger to his mouth, and says "Be quiet."
Yet, I know it is not true, for people are suffering.
Yes, indeed, people are suffering.
And I see the autumn come, and the last Mallow and Chicory bloom.

And the rich men are like Barberries, invasive
With a rich, red, yet bland fruit.
And they sprout in the last months of fall,
And there they grow, not where they ought to be.
Yet, understand, the perfume of the Rose, or the Trumpets
Of the Currants, or the Daisies, or the Bluebells,
Or the Hyacinths, cannot be matched.
The oak of the forest, and the musk of the cedars
Are beautiful among all others.
Yet, the rich grow in wealth, and the poor feed their decadence.
And the writer is called a "Fool".
So what if he is? Was not Wordsworth a supporter of Liberty?
And then converted to a more conservative view?
No... for you cannot have the poets.
All must do their busy work...
Destroy art, history, literature, math, science...
All so the rich can eat, and the poor can feed them.
The peoples spring up in their generations...
And this generation there are the Chicories
With their bitter roots, though vitamin rich,
And they make a Coffee, and have a delicate flower.
They close during the hottest parts of the day,
And they open during the rain and are bright in the morning.

Every morning I wake, suicidal.
I thrall to get up out of my soft bed.
For no sleep can give me my hopeful rest.
I think I owe a great debt to my goals
As I watch those my age live, rich and blessed.
To my art I had given heart and soul
And I wished for a small sum from my test
And though what I wrote were the very best
I am poor, yet heaven's shores I shall go.
Where is my income from my great wisdom?
And am I truly kind, or am I wise?
Did I only write what were great white lies?
Live I do, seeing the youth marching on;
One day, like them, fortune I'll gain and fly.

As a little child, I sat under my Sunday School table,
And I made faces at Ellen and Gary.
Yet, Mrs. Schaefer was teaching, and I was listening.
In the first grade, I was writing my alphabet, 
And learning phonemes and suffixes and prefixes;
I'd learn more in Middle School.
I took my algebra, had my history,
Had my science.
I'd put my head down, and listen.
I didn't do my work.
Turned in assignments late.
Didn't study for tests.
Got high Bs on most of them, because I listened.
Failed half my classes because I wouldn't do homework assignments. 
But, as a grown adult, it is about all I had in life, to give me any hope.
If you took that away, even, I'd have none.

The farmer's soil
Can produce, yet every year
There is risk of drought.

Nature reflects us.
What it does, we do also.
Yet, it is still good.

I have two sins...
Bitterness and Idolatry.
I slept sweet last night,
And then tried to escape the essene---
And I saw Hephzibah in her olive skin,
And she did not want me.
For I idolized her.
And then, the prison house rapist
Mocked me, where the employer
Wished me to meet my fate.
And because he would not hire me, I had an outburst;
For though I knew his sons and daughters,
He did not wish to hire me, for my bread,
But wished me to be the Prison's Victim.
And I told the rapist, I'd like Brittos
Slay him, yet it was bitterness,
Even with a vile oath.
And then I fought the sith,
And ended up on a Morning Talk Show...
There I saw those same people,
But they ignored me, 
And when I talked,
They said, "This is a weak gospel."
And I saw my acquaintances walk by, downcast,
And I knew not how I offended them...
Was it my fault? I did not know for I could not recall the offense.
Yet, it was my gospel,
Of faith producing works....
They shunned me, though
And had their soldiering to do...
Who they fought I do not know,
But I do know it was not themselves.
And then, after the essene tried to grab me,
And I blurted out my idolatry,
I was bit by two Komodo Dragons,
And avoided a third.
And I walked to the snow, and washed the cankerous wounds,
I could feel my leg were swollen and numb;
Where before I were in the fires of hell so I could witness it were real.
And I asked the local, "Does this kill?"
He said, "No." in his ancient wisdom;
The White Evangelical told me to go see a doctor.
Yet, I washed in the snow.
And before that, I was talking,
And they were discussing the Apostolic Fathers.
And I knew a thing, and they knew a thing,
But they cared not for my thing, only theirs;
They said to respect the Crumbs at the Table; so I listened to their gospel, 
And knew I was but a man.
But then they asked me about the weeds.
To which, I told them about the weeds...
First all they knew were the Dandelions,
So I told them about the Veronica, the Mayapples, the Daisies, 
The Violets, the Broad Leaf Plantain,
But they said I talk too much.
But while walking a little further, I saw what I didn't tell them,
Which was Wolf's Bane, which I knew never to touch.
Yet I forgave my debtor of one hundred shekels;
And I told him, "You reap what you sow."
And the realization came to me as I awoke...
"I have two sinis. Idolatry and bitterness.
"But the rest of it is this faulty world and its ills...
"Most of this is not my fault, I now understand.
"It is just a cruel world."