This is the last dark sonnet I shall write  Your lips aren't worthy of my pen's kisses I am sick of whining about our misses I reject your darkness for true light  Am I but Shakespeare's lover jaded?  He left words for me to give to you  But quite frankly, I'd rather you eat glue  Keeping your mouth of lies shut, you faded I turn my pen to a life more fruitful yielded This is the last dark sonnet I shall write Trust me, you don't want my words to fight  My heart will laugh at you as it's shielded I bid you adieu, old love, lost to the winded My mind stands strong and forever mended  

Nobody knows my soul how could they when   they are so quick to judge me   never knowing my deepest reflections   Nobody knows my heart that dreams such   beautiful dreams and has faced   such horrible nightmares and still I survive   Nobody knows my pain something   I hold deep inside in The Depths of Solitude   Nobody knows my soul   and sometimes I watch time pass and wonder   if it is something that   I will truly one day know   because at times I don’t even know my soul

 

 

 Chary Wilson reads his poem, "SpongeBob SquarePants" for the Louisiana Words Tour at George's Place in Baton Rouge, LA.

    Nick Perere reads his poem, "The Peculiar New Room" for the Louisiana Words Tour at George's Place in Baton Rouge, LA.

We live in effortless echo chambers Plagued by the Algorithm Almighty Vacant and void of our pious prayers The Pendulum of Hate is swinging free. And it’s tipped by the clouded Clementine Right in front of our alert open eyes. I wish we could push past this wretched time While they’re ignoring the Unwanteds’ cries. Let’s wear the disguise of racist rich men. Walk amongst them like we are fucking free. While they’re not scared of our pigmented skin, Let’s gossip gaily and spill the spoiled tea. Just or unjust, we’re dealt a cruel fate. Write freely now, for it may be too late.

What will one do for their art when it pulls them by the heart? When every cell of your body is on fire and every strand of your hair vibrates with desire to weave, to write, to sculpt, to compose. Does the beauty come from the mind? Is it within each artist or does it just appear and disappear like smoke. My throat is dry, my belly aches from hunger, I cannot sleep so I remain woke. I eat at the ash of my desire to  create, to paint a picture with my words that I cannot guarantee will ever be heard. I claw at the dryness in my throat the ashes in my mouth long for the river of my mind, of my pen. Stanzas of images, of creation within.  My last vestibule of thoughts of a crescendo, of wet clay  upon a marble table, of dreams turned  into life, to stay on the page, on the canvas, in the lyrics forever.  I did  this. I wrote, drew, sculpted, composed with ribs showing, eyes sunken. No matter because I know that as long as words flow, and as long as children d...

 

 

I am at war with you My love is forever true You leave me in disgrace  And without any place  What is love good for? Absolutely nothing solid So I remain quite stolid  I can't ask you anymore  I am at war with you  I am at war with love I don't care with who You puppeteer me from above  This war, this love, this pain God, grant me life, I'm insane   

paper crane and aero-planes above us there is only sky pondering the clouds so high like mountains without tops paper cranes and hurricanes there is no gas and no relief but people smile through their grief and move on with their lives paper cranes and window panes people stop and look inside and wonder why we run and hide living in a glass house paper cranes and summer rains flowers bloom in vibrant hues and everyone has lost their blues dancing in the lazy sun paper cranes and aches and pains tell me, doctor, what is wrong? Inside your heart there is a song who will want to hear it? paper cranes and other things are sitting in a pile who will want them now you’re gone and dead for quite a while?