For Kurt Cobain, poet, songwriter, social critic, who was born this day in 1967. Some musings about the superficial world he saw, and ultimately despaired of.
It is artful, but is it art?
Does it touch the soul and stir the heart?
Does it evoke a yearning for what’s real,
Or is it merely clever artifice
Without feeling or sense?
Such nonsense clogs the airways
Of our collective consciousness.
Our radios whine with doggerel
That sniffs the shores, but fails to find
A continent of meaning or intent.
Visuals and images set our retinas reeling,
And as they fade pale ghosts appear
And gesture, discontent, inarticulate,
Pointing to some vague and indefinable reality
We once knew and can no longer see.
Our sense is trivialized
As we embrace what is endlessly facile.
“Here we are, now entertain us,”
We demand. Then kill the poet
With his own hand.
Home Thoughts From Abroad 
February 21, 2011 at 2:27 pm
I still have no idea of the title of the poem but it goes like this:
An agony wretched face is blurring at the canvas of life
Signifying a depression that dull is everything
How can I tell that stricken tight time I’m having
Only to let know that the outcome is nothing?
Sadness fills the core of my inner thought
Portraying a boredom, lack of enthusiasm and a spirit of beelzebub
How I wish that sleep is the remedies to all my pain
Food is my source of enlightened in my spirit
And dreaming is my source of knowledge and power
Yet, still it not signifying nothing
Given no attention to all its fulfillment.
But life need to move on
Cause’ diversities of road yet undiscovered and life still unfold it greatness
Joy is no longer a feeling to have
Rather a thought that to be encourage
Forgetting there was once the light turn dark
Simplifying all the abundance that God still grace; And give a a daily bread as supplement
Signifying there a now something finally made out of nothing.