In a star struck society, she stuffed socks with shattered glass and danced like she was afire with gasoline dripping from the bird she signed out holding…

Curious but i must wonder, did that not metaphorically f%$king burn? This is a sample of what my days have become. Hands calloused, skin bruised, I’ve eliminated almost every goal I’ve had for the year in the past 7 weeks serving time an inmate in the dark corner of the world called my home. As I watch the world the start to return back to its naked, unfortunate ways, each essential employee looking as miserable as the next, I cannot help but to think this is more profit motivated than not. After all, hasn’t it been stated this is only the first wave and we haven’t even seen the worst of it yet? But the words of science have no place in this economic equation, money is the only reason the world goes around, they long for us to believe such foolishness.


We sat around and struck and match and set fire to the remaining stack of paperwork hoping the green timber would finally ignite. There is absolutely nothing as liberating as watching your due bills burn up into ash. If only life were so simple, we would be such a happier civilization. We kill ourselves to fatten and enrich the pockets of only few wealthy, anonymous motherfuckers that we will never know. Some days my disgust with this hopeless greed driven world leaves such a bitter taste in my mouth. Rant over.

Here we are working our way deeper into the seclusion then as our strings become pulled becoming force-fed back into the belly of the merciless-monster-society. Is anyone ever truly ready to inherit the mess and chaos left behind for them by the uneducated, unaware generation ahead of them? We take for granted these simplest days just to partake in the rat race, and without a doubt, I’m certain that we are nothing more than the horses we ourselves gamble upon at the racetrack. It cannot continue forever like this, ya know? Sooner than later this shit is gonna snap back and explode in our faces because we are the puppets dangled over the front lines of a number negotiation amidst a learn-as-you-go campaign that has turned significantly wrong.

…Maybe the addicts have it right? Stay numb, lose your number and fade into the backdrop a casualty in the making. How can it be any better or any worse? Maybe, maybe not. We shall soon find out.


The self-righteous indignation and complacency of those smug cock-suckers has become a rash ignored until it can no longer be put aside. Where did or rather when did the first curve-ball of this equation called life get thrown into the mix? And was it a guaranteed strike-out?

Alright, that was therapeutic, well at least in the way that my mind felt challenged for a moment. This has been spent in a haze of hope & dreams and hopeful eyes break the most tear ducts for those stuck watching this heartbreak.

Has anyone had a chance to check out my Channillo poetry series Graveyards & Cornfields yet? Would like some outside input on what the poems make others feel and think. So if anyone does take up the free 30 day subscription and check those out, please do not be afraid to comment there or here or somewhere for me to discover and read. That’d be swell.


FB Copy of Planet Productions poetry & Press presents

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