Yeah, I know. Guys aren't supposed to write poetry. But here's a few of mine for the hell of it:

Sleeping America
In my travels,
I walk a dark, twisting road
That leads from one morning to the next
From one on-ramp to one off-ramp
From one life to one death

And each time I complete a journey
I find myself facing the same road again,
The same on-ramps
The same off-ramps
The same lives…the same deaths.
Yet the journey never ends.

Twisted knots that can’t be broken
Spirits speaking in tongues that can’t be deciphered.
Trees swaying the wrong way in the wind.
A faint breeze rising above the surface.
A light peeking through the dawn of red darkness.

Oh, how I hate the mornings.
Those…hybrid horizons that break up the freedom of my
Nocturnal yearnings
Reminding me that everything started must
Eventually end
Everything that ends must eventually start up again.
Oh, how I hate the mornings.

I hate the realization and realities of what I have done
The certain knowledge of last night’s history combined
With the belief of history to come
Never ceases to bring solitude to my early mornings.
There’s always anger
Regret
Hatred
Confusion
And then remembrance.
Remembrance that it was all done for a purpose.
A purpose much greater than myself.

I remember the man
I remember the world
I remember the words we spoke together
And I remember how we laughed together
Yet we could remember little else.

I am the reality of today’s society.
I am the alarm clock that was made to wake up
Sleeping America like a slumbering giant that
Hasn’t remembered it went to sleep long ago
I am the wake-up call that knows only too well
What would happen without me, so I do my job,
Dispatching my anger so that America may one day
Wake up again.
I am the light at the end of the tunnel
That sees the hidden darkness that swarms throughout it
Offering entrance
Yet hindering progress
I am the memory that haunts you
That keeps you up night after night
Reminding you that a step forward
Comes with a resounding retreat.
And I am the lone lover at the side of a hospital bed
Touching a hand for the last time
Waking and dreaming
Waking and dreaming.

Sleeping America.
Your morning is only your beginning.
Wake up Sleeping America.
Your slumber is no more.

I told him of the slumbering giant, and he wrote it down.
I told him how I was waking the slumbering giant to show
that all is not right in the world.
He just wrote it down.
I told him that I am working to make sure that those like
him do not just write things down but take action.
Take action to wake up Sleeping America from its slumber.
I told him.
But I don't think he was really listening.

I am America. And I am its reality.
Wake up Sleeping America.

I wrote the following some years ago, and it won a national award at the time and was published a few times as a result:

Same Old Song
Every morning the same bird sings its waking song
Bringing the world to life.
Cheerful.
Without a care in the world
Does he lift his wing to soar
Or does he just fly?
Does he wonder what it’s all about?
Or does he just sing?

The roads keep turning
And the turns keep twisting
And the twists keep changing
Till the road is all there is.
The distance between us is no longer a straight line
But an endless cavern of words and silence.

Do you still think about me when the birds sing?

Do you still listen to the same old songs?
Do you say the same old words?
Do you still think of the world in the way you do?
Every morning the same bird sings its waking song.
And I wonder if the meaning ever changes.

End of poetry

Like I said, I know guys aren't supposed to write poetry, but oh well, that was some of mine.

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