These poems usually have some sort of theme incorporated into the structure, and it usually 'debates' an argument.
The Great Undertaking
What do you do, when looking deep into yourself
You find hurtful and blatant shortcomings?
Do you live out your life in misery,
Or do you seek the grand adventure-
The mystery of life?

So you decide to embark on that journey,
Hoping to find that elusive identity of self.
Like Caesar before you, crossing the Rubicon
Telling yourself the die is cast,
The bridges are burnt down and the past cast aside.

Ambitions and long-denied dreams rush to the fore,
And with them follow the rebirth of old fears.
Scarred and battered from holding on to life,
It is only then you reach the full potential locked within
That unleashed itself in the barren glory of the outback.

O take heart Child of Destiny,
For what you seek to discover
May end up being that which destroys you.
Strengthen your resolve for the times to come,
Lest you forget your quest for the mystery of life.

Paradoxical Living Death
The night gives unto its way, light;
The elderly die- the newborn arises.
Promethean flame quenched tightly in essence,
Thunder reverberates, centred on lightning.

Man created religion- belief created War,
Evil is given substance for holiness to illumine.
Words convey meaning- truth creates falsehood;
Wrong creates righteousness while pain allows pleasure.


Perhaps an ingredient-added for substance-
Unbalances creation, giving birth to Chaos.
Time, where art thou? Answer me!
I stand tall, and shake the sky for thee!

Seeker of Something
Slicing silently, blood slicked sword of steel,
Powering its deadly path through flesh,
Efficiently carving ninjitsu proficients with ease,
Honed blade rising low over the land,
Crashing down with the grace of lightning.

Swaths of destruction mark the wake of my passage;
The army guarding what I seek, obsolete.
With resolution, the sword is my friend;
Rage-my companion! Death? the release.
Make no attempt to withhold my desire! else,
May the arms of the holy mother embrace thee.

Family
The dam’s tranquil surface mirrors the sky,
Earth, tree, water and sky; merge seamlessly
In unconscious grace- beyond my ken.
My arm, that precious limb-

Launches,
Forth,
Its eager captive;
Spinning and careening,
Skimming and skipping,
Sinking.

Like the missile, our ancient family stands.
Each concentric ripple explains the past,
Spreading in a flux of motion,
Propagating unchecked within the contained expanse.

But unlike history, the next shard of rock
Splashes violent and explosive displacement.
The Creator holds gently his next skipping stone;
I am unsure of my flight,
Marked passage into Tomorrow.

Monosyllables
The great wise men may extrapolate
In their uncommonly large features of language;
But one fact still stands-
The Plebian masses will still prefer
Small words,
To those that shake and crumble empires.

Tiny, yet mighty,
You, and me,
Thee, and thou,
I love you,
I hate you,
Thou lovest me,
Thou hatest me.


And wherefore not,
Should these miniature giants
Crush and grind
The pulp of humanity?

Who Am I I am the sword you thrust in your heart;
The weapon that breaks society apart.

While your tears fall and scatter like dust-
It’s obvious the Iron Maiden has corroded to rust.

You created me in error- I am the mistake,
The real McCoy and not a fake.

Insanity
Your laughing eyes; are they mocking me,
Or the image of us together- that possibility?

The kleptomaniac inside of me threatens to suddenly break free
And recklessly kiss you; but I don’t want a kick in the groin from thee!

In that clever mind you analyze me like a well paid lawyer,
Breaking down my defense and unmasking a voyeur.

But no, it must be the paranoia
As I trek through your doorway and into the foyer.

Reason to Live
Feel like jumping off a cliff;
Lost my objectives, feeling adrift,
When suddenly focusing on life-
Finding a deadly jagged knife.

One plunge could destroy who I am;
No need for a modern Vietnam.
But realization pulls me from the brink,
I am rescued before I sink.

Child of Fortune
In trash can piles of rich man’s wastes
I have searched for sustenance to feed myself.
Hunger is no stranger to me, nor coldness;
Fake compassion cuts deeper than steel,
Metal likeness in fathomless pockets.

In fields scorched crack by summer’s hot glare
I have toiled for a means to survive.
Weariness grows better than the crops I sow;
These possessions I own are all the spoils I have earned,
Climbing the ladder of social distinction.

In fancy parties and glittering light
I am disgusted with the creature I have become.
But you and I are victims of a system;
We’ve made our own bed and slept in it,
Knowing exactly what we bargained for.

Pondering
I stare up in loneliness,
Captured in sheer expression
Of how, why and if,
Are you thinking what I am?

If, by some kind of passing chance,
This holds true, then what draws
Your thoughts to mine,
Like iron filling to the lodestone?

This place- the silence-
It kills me, a slow death,
Inability to react,
To shout! Be free!

Not bound nor gagged,
Yet still I am restrained more efficiently
Than chains could ever hold me
By the thought of your desire.

Hot Chips
It all starts as a potato.
Plucked out of the loam;
Carefully washed in cleansing water
Before getting skinned alive
And grated, into little pieces.

All around the scene’s the same-
Into the boiling vat of oil,
From raw to ready,
Thrown wildly before getting dumped
Unceremoniously onto a plate.

After salting and final preparations are made,
Some greedy human walks along.
The biggest chip is chosen first.
The smallest chip is ignored.
The brown soggy chip is discarded.