To Be Is Not To Be

What is Love?

Living is death,

No air or breath.

Joy is also pain,

Sunshine – rain.

But, the heart beats on…

Strength degrades to weakness,

Confidence fades into meekness,

Happiness shares similarity with depression,

Desired peace is voiced as angry expression,

But the heart beat on…

The truth was in honesty (reality) only lies.

Laughter – as the person I was – painfully dies;

This corpse I now am, I bitterly hate and despise.  

All those perceived feelings – have shed their mask of illusion;

No more than the mind, nerves, and senses, logical conclusion –

Pointless iterations preceding a predestined death, life – a delusion.

But the TRUE heart STILL beats on,

And though all hope and life is gone –

These verses remain beating strong.

Composed By: A. D.

Hearing Aids

These two headphones,

Are an escape route.

The ears can breakout  

From the streams

Of steady screams;

The incessant shouts,

Endlessly fought bouts,

The attacking tones...

...The delirium inciting disturbances,

Which cause such a perturbation;

Are nullified by the ear buds services,

They offer the psyche salvation.

The

Metrically unregulated

Is

Symmetrically amalgamated.

From every wave…

(The thieving mob

No longer robs

The thoughts train

Noisy raiders

Mind invaders

Driving insane)

…Hearing aids save.

Conceptualizing concentration

Will achieve purification,

Focused aesthetic articulation

Will conceive beautification,

Adverse auditory stimulation

Will receive eradication.

Composed By: A. D.

Aggrieved Each Nightfall Ad Infinitum

With great effort his essence sought to deny each and every pleasure,

The variety of distractions which his body often found in leisure.

The only actual joy, which his heart would still value and treasure:

Subtle improvements of his dreams, by an incremental measure.

His tormented flesh, called for him to cease;

The endless pursuit, of his imagination`s release.

Still, the objective`s capture, he`d continue to increase;

Despite all the temptations, which plagued his peace.

His social existence was in a barren condition;

No time for any, except personal ambition -

And, while he acknowledged this lonely position,

He did not attempt to make any public addition.

Pouring his entire heart, and every ounce of his soul,

Into the attainment of his one (and only) lifelong goal.

Willing to pay and suffer every single solitary toll;

While in silent solitude, his momentum continued to roll.

He was insulted daily for his foolishly followed aspiration,

Ridiculed relentlessly for his hopeful sense of dedication,

Labeled with many brands for his steadfast concentration;

But, against the endless enmity, still chasing artistic generation.

Comforted by the knowledge: if he died before the vision was achieved;

In heaven, hell, or nothingness – his spirit would be content and relieved.

He felt that, though success might be an illusion which lied and deceived;

Throughout all the doubt and slander, he always attempted and believed.

Composed By: A. D.

A Futile Lament for Relief

A man stood on the subway platform, incessantly calling out;

As the trains were steadily passing, and commuter’s amassing.

Destitute, ignored, and socially deplored, he continued to shout.

His eyes were filled with a strange sort of desperation;

From his lips cries spilled, like the liquids of perspiration.

The repetitive echoes, emanated from his continuous calls;

Reverberating like an orchestras performance, on concert halls.

Deep in his Flesh, he knew each of the passerby’s could hear;

And in his Heart – pain, for none would lend a compassionate ear.

Their dismissal pierced, his Skin and Organ, like a fatal spear.

Finally, a young child and her mother, walked past his incessant pleas;

The young girl`s hair, innocently blowing, in the passing cars breeze.

Time would pause for a moment, as the man and child locked eyes;

His were brown as the earth, and hers were azure as the skies.

The virtuous youth, had yet to become a gadget of humanity;

And saw only a desperate soul, where other`s saw insanity.  

She looked at him with curiosity, and her mind grew very puzzled:

Wondering why no other would assist the man who was troubled?

Why they leered, mocked, and neglected; another who struggled?

So, without a moment of further contemplation,

She decided to help him – no indifferent hesitation.

Knowing (without cognition) that a smile, a wave, and a friendly "hi";

Might be the cure, for the stranger, who seemed to internally die.

The youth tenderly prepared to offer, the injured individual, a friendly wave;

But stayed the salutation at the roaring command, which her callous mother gave.

Her eyes filled with tears; as the next train - took the beaten, conceded man to his grave.

Composed By: A. D.

A Recession of Depression

The poet places all the depression in recession,

And

For a moment – reveals more unseen progression!

So for this silent exaltation

With one last exclamation!

The poet enacts a cancellation

The poet subtracts punctuation

There are times when the obscurity and loneliness

Leave every ounce of the flesh in a state of hopelessness

Yet, each day poetry develops - harmony steadily envelops

In social emptiness the verses find purity and joyfulness

Poetically lighting the (once) impenetrable darkness

With the fire of constantly burning dedication and desire

Every physical aliment is spiritual irrelevant

Every current moment is a destined present

All impurities requiring correction

Are accepted as personal perfection

The many obstacles – which stood in resistance

 Are overcome by the execution of persistence

Logically the poet knows there is no chance that this feeling will last

But if it`s true the past remains the past

And if it`s honest “Alea iacta est”

Then until the next serendipity – may this emotion remain unsurpassed.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Anti-venom

She had ambled and rambled, through the reverie and the bramble;

Unaware that she gambled, with something deadly in the preamble.

Her imagination was sterilized, after a few days without any poetry;

She was bitten and paralyzed, by the serpent of complacency – totally.

The apparently virulent venom vehemently affects her mentality,

Seemingly contaminating concoction course through her personality…

(The motions of her art, aren`t easy to forget –

The waves of emotions, which flood the sight

The ink like blood – mud, which soils the white;

The rhymes, like snakes, uncoil then recoil – applying a bite

Of unmitigated evocation – somehow, a beneficial sensation)…

Yet, this infection, in the plasma of her imagination;

Is the medication for the asthma of her pen,

The alleviation of the restraint of her spiritual Zen,

(Like Pythagoras) Her summation, her perfection – ten.

This was, the elision of all her metrical stagnation,

The sanitation of all her melodious formulations.

Her Anti-venom.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Discontent

Keep the illusion of fame and appreciation -

All those fragile, perishable commodities -

Which are subject to decay and deprecation,

The words will take acclaim from the oddities.

Do these verses not fit the political correct cookie cutter?

Do they stick to the roof of your mouth like peanut butter?

Perfect! These words are done searching for any approval,

Please reject them – pending some critic`s poetic removal.

Like a lost dog, they searched for a heart and home;

In ridicule and despair they wandered all alone –

And the domesticated rhyme, searching for acknowledgment temporal;

Has become content in grime, happily savage and ferociously feral.

So, frankly “F*ck validation”, some half-hearted affirmation;

Of their lyrical ability. These poems are now self-sustained

By their empirical capacity – no longer held and restrained,

In the quest for consent (never again to be pent)…

These symbols are their own lone resistance,

Continuing their march, with an unyielding persistence –

Their only purpose, reason, cause, or intent

Is (in their angry, fed-up, focused descent):

To express to others opinions, their utterly aloof dissent.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Epitaph

She stood in silence of the empty graveyard...

She wanted to speak, but found it to hard…

Her heart was filled with ravenous regret and great guilt

From all the pain – and she would continuously run away.

In silence of the night tears fell as she hid alone and cried,

In the light of the day, she`d hide in the fortress she built.

A keep - made of fake smiles is where she would, daily, stay;

Until the blood she spilled and salted waters had dried.

The woman, which the rest of the world knew (the camouflage)

Was absolutely content, loyal, loving, and upbeat.

Nothing about this joyful girl appeared at all forlorn,

A testament to her expertly displayed disguise (her mirage).

They knew nothing of her disposition of defeat,

The low self-esteem, and the scars which were worn.

She`d display the deceptive image at her place of vocation;

Showing off the false smiles, in multiple pictures on Instagram.

So deft at deceit, she usually almost believed fiction was actuality.

Why should she not believe in her dishonest creation,

If everyone else believed in the visage (not seeing the scam)?

She fooled her closest companions and lied to her own family…

… To one, however, she was momentarily real and genuine.

Not because she wanted to, but due to all they had been through.

This person was shown her very best and also the faulty –

Had sampled all the sweetness and the bitter and salty.

Through both heaven and hell, their friendship steadily grew;

And like the titanic, they didn`t see the approaching ruin.

Despite the multiple repeated lies and careless disregard from her;

A second-second chance to show loyalty and honesty would occur.

The person stood by her bedside, when she was in the hospital;

And forgave all the untruth, every injury, ignored the suspicion,

Repaired the damage that she cause; believed she would reach her optimum –

Despite endless betrayals, that her commitment would be at its` maximum.

She swore that her love was endless, without any condition –

And this would be the most destructive lie which she would tell.

In their time spent together she`d reveal secrets, she claimed none knew;

Despite her character, the person took those things revealed, to be true.

The deepest desires of her dreams, the fervor and ferocity of her fears;

The person loved her honest smiles and consoled all her falling tears.

She lived in her disguise and tried not to think about the person she destroyed.

All responsibility for the death, she just blew off and would utterly avoid

Thinking about the life, her nefarious ways had carelessly severed apart;

She was an artist who created an odious, abhorrent work of modern art.

She tried to ignore looking or speaking to the grave,

Of the friend, that she didn`t even attempt to save.

She justified her decisions and actions, by relying on advice of transitory friends;

But despite all their instructed fancies and her own delusional illusions,

The reality, the validity, the filthy fact – she couldn`t wash away or cover or cleanse…

Which was: She killed the person with her repeated wicked contusions.

And though the person screamed every obscenity as they died at her hands;

No matter the words said - to this day, one phrase remains and forever stands.

No matter the wrongs, who threw the first stone, how she avoided it; she couldn`t undue

A truth the person expressed as they died… She tried to avoid their last words… “I Love You”.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Monsoon Of Gloom

The winds around the tiny ship were growing.

The captain stood at the helm all alone,

As Poseidon`s breath was violently blowing.

The coward crew had abandoned ship

In a frivolous attempt to swim home.

Precipitation, from the clouds, began to slip.

The true fury of the tempest had, only begun to show.

From aft to forecastle, the vessel was tossed;

As the savage waters, cast the steel hull to and fro.

The captain, as a first mate, survived A Shipwreck before

(The experience, on his soul, was eternally embossed),

So he held his course; although he was still unsure…

… Of what the payment for this journey might be.

He looked up at the sky, and was filled with uncertainty;

As thunder from the black, flashed above the sea.

The captains` disposition was dedicated and humble,

In his heart he fought any sort of self-sustaining vanity;

So his commitment to his mission did not stumble.

The fact, that his own life (to him) was of little value or meaning;

Caused him to steer the ship further forward –

Deeper into the adverse waves, rumbling thunder, rain streaming.

Some might say he was suicidal, and others that he was bold,

But as the craft, into the squall, moved toward –

In his heart the captain felt (of his life) totally indifferent and cold.

The deluge pouring from the clouds was now increasing,

And the raging typhoon had grown – more vicious;

Still, the captains` progress was not close to ceasing.

The wash, now consuming the deck, continued to swell;

And the voyage began to appear - more pernicious –

Yet, the commander feared neither death nor hell.

Doubts of survival began multiplying, rising in the interior;

He felt an intense fear of the craft becoming overtaken,

As Zeus and Poseidon wrought calamity on the exterior.

The pilot knew others were depending on the cargo

(And their reliant trust, could not afford to be forsaken),

Which resided in the holds down inside and below.

The worn vessel was no longer under the skippers’ control –

But, some strange spirit kept the boat afloat and advancing;

Pressing through the behemoth blasts, and each riptide roll.

Suddenly, the man saw ahead, a developing tremendous tidal wave.

He knew that: he and the ship, with destruction were dancing;

And that this last step, enveloping, would drag them to the grave.

In a series of flashing moments (which felt like an hour) –

With the moan of aqua and steel; the ship was submerged in the brine,

By the flood of pressure, from Poseidon` pure power.

Held within the savage drink, there was no air generated;

Sounds and sights were distorted and deafened. After some odd time

Had passed, with the captain in this condition, he suffocated.

The captain felt the life leaving his body, and felt a new fear.

The fear was not due to his current form, now passing;

It`s source at first, like his vision, was occult – and unclear.

Soon however, the reason became evident in his dying mind –

He thought about the souls, with their agony surpassing;

He felt terrible, a new source of hope, they`d have to find.

His sight, in death, grew dark as night, then was bright white.

He was lost in utter stillness – an emptiness beyond the storms` violence.

The place reminded his spirit of staring directly into sunlight.

Formless, he drifted, not feeling a thing – beyond absolutely numb

He attempted to discern a direction, in this realm of light and silence;

And soon felt as if he was falling asleep, to this feeling he`d succumb.

In a moment his vision rejoined the obsidian, and flesh he was feeling.

Opening his eyes, he saw the celestial sphere – the terrestrial ceiling.

He felt the sunshine, and heard the cry of a gull, as he awoke from the lull.

The five senses (at first dull), were detected by the receptors in his skull.

Slowly standing, erect on the deck, he looked ahead and saw port and land;

How he and the battered ship pushed past the tempest, he couldn`t understand.

The only thing which the commander knew, in his heart – through and through;

Was he hoped that the vigorously contested cargo brought joy – to at least a few.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

The Empty Poet

For every poem that is shown

Six poems are hidden away

For every flower that is grown

Six seeds in the earth still lay

For all the various emotions

Which are poetically expressed

The one that occurs most

Which is mostly repressed

(Not to brag or boast)

Is the feeling of indifference

This life is rife

With strife and pleasure

There`s leisure and labor

Which create feelings

That come in every flavor

In these emotional dealings

For all the various emotions

He personally prefers to remain empty

When he is not immersed in poetry

For if he didn`t cloak his mind in apathy

Then his mind would bring him insanity.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

A Sparrow Into The Sun

"Apollo be my sole guide,

Most valued muse;

In your craft I confide,

This vessel – use".

Under the falling sunshine of this day,

This world of electrical lights and sirens – surrounds.

The concrete structures and movement of steel,

Numbs all the senses and the cognition – it confounds.

Diluting free formed expression and wordplay.

This Face in a Book, constant attempts to conceal.

My mind repeatedly will ask:

How much of what is now being perceived

(The mentally relayed data and information;

The sights, scents, sounds, and thoughts received)

Is anything more than a momentary mortal manifestation,

And what is the purpose of this fleeting task?

This is the great weight on my shoulder:

Since, beauty is in the eye of the beholder;

How is Venus poetically revealed,

If within another`s eye she is concealed?

At times it feels like the pen is staring into the sun;

Glaring, blaring, binding, and blinding its vision.

I`ve followed Athena and her invisible owls -

Through the cold dark of midnight,

With the many verbal and written prowls;

Yet, for all the intelligence and knowledge,

The essence of allure escapes all I write.

To your craft, my heart – I repeatedly pledge.

Committed to this labor of love,

Immersed in it every single day;

With not a care or concerns,

As time degrades this body away.

The soul is sent to the sun high above,

While the rising heat continuously burns;

Purifying every single imperfection,

In each inscribed altar`s erection.

Still, steady in this poetic toil.

The pen is my inky hoe,

With which I till the lined soil;

Though it is muddy, soaked,

Saturated in lonely woe.

My hearts throat is choked,

Strangled by the wires of despair;

Still these verses of fire are prepared,

Each ember word has been stoked.

To you Apollo, I`ve rendered another sacrifice.

More dues and homages are tendered,

Here on this page, in this technological age;

Where papers and screens rapidly splice.

My mind and heart, I`ve dismembered;

With meticulous calculations, no hate, no rage.

More alchemic calcinations, made by

Movements in versification;

Yet, another supplication,

Of poetic creation is sent to the sky.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Alone In The Night

All alone for another night

Seems a good time to write

When friendship is out of sight

A pen and page offer a friendly light

When no one is happily calling

And the spirits are slowly falling

And the emptiness is sprawling

And the hope is rapidly dwindling

Poetry will never-ever abandon

Prose remains silently understanding

Journals and notebooks are not demanding

Letters and phrases remain, by your side, standing

No matter the night of the week

If ever the heart is feeling weak

Then begin a quest, and work to seek

The verbal apex and rhythmic peak

Whatever may be your personal need

It lies within this words, ready for you to weave.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Frivolous Supplications

Often distracted by the lack of friends;

From being unemployed, and having no ends.

The afternoon is the current setting

For some momentary, present forgetting.

A distraction from this enslaving reality,

Attention is now shifted to triviality.

Looking at the timeless, strong trees;

Swaying with ease in the gentle breeze:

Their trunks are almost perfectly still;

Yet, they are growing each instant still.

Their branches reach further into the sky,

Hands outstretched to the heavens high.

With written supplications doing the same,

Then, working each idea seen, into this frame.

Distilling these conceptions further, and ever more;

To create compositions unadulterated and pure.

Drifting further into each observation,

Proceeding forward with little procrastination.

The clouds above drift along, high above, without a care;

In the daily daydreams, the essence is also up there.

Three sparrows hop along the ground,

Even the cloud dwellers must come down;

Still they chirp out such a joyful sound.

Smiling no matter the despair.

Grin becoming a pair of wings,

To fly with them through the cool air;

Amazed by what joy the flight brings!

Finding a source of great wealth:

In happiness and daily health.

Rich in written rhythmic composition,

And in lines of metered precision.

So in the afternoon, when lonely and alone,

To friendship in nature the heart has flown.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Sweating Bullets

The poet started out that night with a few simple bars;

Outside his window, the only sound was passing cars.

“Soon they will arrive to torment -

The unseen voices, echoing without relent.

Insults falling in a steady torrent,

Ridicule calling leaving me spent.

To the paper I`ll run and hide,

In it`s leaves I`ll safely abide;

Till the verbal attacks eventually subside,

Within these verses, I must now reside.”

His life and soul, he would gladly return;

If only in doing so, he wouldn`t have to burn.

He tried to smile, all the time, throughout it all;

But the harder he tried, the harder he`d fall.

Keeping the feelings inside each sunlit day;

There they would reside; hidden away.

Each night, voices incessantly insulted him, groups of friends;

Their distant ridicule, which anointed him, knew no ends.  

With only his book to keep him company;

In his solace, he felt, already in purgatory.

He never felt an emptiness, which was so filling.

Slowly, his life`s dullness was becoming thrilling.

A tempest of torment and emotions filled his hollowed mind;

But, an onset of anguish, was the only feeling he could find.

The silence of the night, he had grown to fear;

For in the darkness, the voices became clear.

On this particular evening, after the darkness had set;

Silence was broken, with suicide`s calling, his hearing had met.

Whispering taunts in his sunken ears,

“Do it, you pussy” is all he hears.

Yet, his heart failed to complete the deed;

So, chants continued from the demonic breed.

“You fucking bitch” they, now, repeatedly did yell;

These relentless, restless nights, were his living hell.

 Closing his lids, still hearing their reprise;

And then came the flashes of hate filled eyes.

He stared at them, eyes shut, with a will of steel;

The fear of death, and of violence, he did not feel.

He lay steady and at the ready, to attempt to defeat;

Any demonic or human foe, which he might meet.

With all his might, he attempted to do what is right;

But with violent temptation, he fought a losing fight.

He was tired of being called a fearful coward;

His inert raging energy, had now been powered.

Up from his bed, his body was furiously sprung;

Like a bullet from a recently shot, smoking gun.

His hand grabbed the closest makeshift weapon.

From that night`s battle, he would not run.

A knife and a bat, infuriation - tremors in his hand

To their death, he would send the incessant band.

It was 3:30 am, and he was on the concrete;

No intention, or ideas, of peaceful retreat.

He saw not a shadow of a person in sight,

Met only with the sounds of the dead of night.

So his eyes filled with a flood of tears,

Experiencing - the worst of all his fears.

For all the visions and words the voices said;

Were only the ruminations, and creations in his head.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Calling to The Man of Sand

No dreams came when he went to sleep

Only emptiness filled him within -

While his mind drifted into the deep.

The barren black would now begin…

Thinking, journeying back, then forward again -

When he was a young boy

He had dreamt of only joy.

Accomplishing the impossible, like a hero

Summoning forth heat from absolute zero.

Battling dragons and demons to save his queen

And once with her, innocent love, nothing obscene.

Imagination, creation, and total elation;

Encompassed every unconscious sensation.

Thinking, journeying back, then forward again –

From saving the whole world

His dreams began to fade.

The straight becoming curled

His peace began to degrade.

In passing time, he would soon come of age;

The passage of life had made night a painful cage.

All of his happiness was fully sheared;

Nightmares of fear, had soon appeared.

Thinking, journeying back, then forward again –

Dreaming of lovers who had cheated;

Their heartbreaking actions, every eve,

Were constantly and tirelessly repeated.

Making him feel futile and very naïve.

Dreams of unfriendly faces slinging derision;

Of their ridicule, each night he`d envision.

This clamorous sleep, he started to disdain;

For the vociferous rest, had wracked his brain.

Thinking, journeying back, then forward again –

In the present even torment had dissipated.

In sleeping fantasy and midnight thought

His essence had no longer participated;

The gateway to Morpheus was shut taut.

No dreams came when he went to sleep

Only emptiness filled him within -

While his mind drifted into the deep.

The barren black would now begin,

And yet inside he did not weep;

Smiling as he silently fell asleep.

A look of satisfaction rested upon his grin,

For a state of dream, each day he lived in.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

The Poet Phoenix

Into the fires racing

Failure he`s now facing

So no looking back

The poet took the dive

Searing is the pain

A reminder he`s alive

No thoughts to retract

Falling like the rain

Once again pursuing the dreams

Anguish envelops the soul

Sleepless nights took their toll

In silence he violently screams

Chanting “Fuck the fear

Let my death draw near”

Releasing all he holds dear

Through the waves of tormenting flame

His body he will readily choose to maim

Tumbling flesh torn against each cliff

Each new wound creating a glyph

Every painful and bloody rune

Is joyfully inscribed and hewn

Exposed bone tempered into steel

In each new jagged collision

His flesh ruptures and starts to peel

Blood runs, blinding vision

Spiraling through the fiery sky

Like a comet he did fly

The angels silently gazed

As he fell through the blaze

The demons wickedly laughed

As he tumbled down the shaft

The poet thought-

If two are against you

Do they remain two?

In that moment he was born anew

And lost to all that he once knew

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

A Shipwreck

The happiness is only found

In the empty, barren sound:

Which envelops all around.

Within this page, soul`s bound.

There is a joy in hopelessness,

A strange and empty bliss.

The ship that sailed this empty sea,

Was found shipwrecked, unexpectedly.

Thunder and lighting, a foreshadow

Of an incoming destructive shadow.

This was followed by an onslaught icy rain,

The chill numbed the surviving man`s brain.

He was headed initially for new land

When the bold captain assumed command.

When storm appeared, the vessel was already lost;

And the sedition and starvation had taken its cost.

Now, the incoming deadly squall;

Ominous, sent by a demonic thrall.

The hull was sturdy, sound,

As the storm began to surround.

The decrepit remaining crew; were salty and true;

And yet, still found to be fearful as the storm grew.

The waves, of deep blue, began to swell,

Within the eye of storm, a glance of hell.

The brazen captain rallied the men, to “hold the line”;

His voice compressed, by taste of the savage brine.

The pressure from each proceeding wave,

One by one, took the crew to their grave.

Black was illuminated completely clear and bright;

By howling, resounding cracks, and flashes of golden light.

Of all on-board that painfully now remained:

Captain and first mate, on wooden the frame.

The once fine, limber, timber;

Creaked as it began to splinter.

Chilling rain coalesced with frozen hail,

While splashing surges rent ship frail.

Broken planks of crafted wood

Abandoned the ship for good.

The plumb set mast

Was horizontally cast.

Poseidon was still deciding

Fate of two still surviving.

Zeus sent a blast of light and thunder,

That wrought the wreck asunder.

To the liquid, the craft began to sink under;

Slowly, to conjoin with the lockers plunder.

Two souls were tossed in the torrent,

Of the abysmal, unrelenting, raging current.

Cerberus was foaming at the mouth.

Waves foaming tossed the men about.

The men held each other’s hand,

Devoid of hope, they`d reach land.

In their demise, they cried and screamed aloud

Calling out to God, tempest-humbled, not proud.

The ocean provided no quarter,

The captains’ breath, it would slaughter.

The solitary first mate was left, as the storm died;

And reaching land, he felt ecstatic to have survived.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Point Of View

Nothing seems real

All is so surreal

No one seems to feel

Compassion made of steel

In the very end

We all depend

On the love others send

The peace we all rend

Each person has to coexist

With others within their mist

A truth some might desire to resist

Still the honest truth will persist

Even if we deny honesty

And refuse blatant destiny

Living in a world of fancy

Reality will just be a fantasy

We all pass subconscious judgments

That make in our outlook subtle dents

The problem comes when these thoughts create

An atmosphere without love, consumed by hate.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Imperfect Infallibility

The poem per se,

A home of torment, I'd say.

Some wordplay,

Glum doesn't relent.

Blissfully living.

Wistfully giving.

Dejected and rejected,

Affected socially by words reflected.

With love for art,

A wordsmith at heart!

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Shining Light

I grasp and fight

In this deep dark night.

In solemn black I write.

Still nothing seems right,

In this deep dark night;

Blind to both left and right.

My chest grows tight...

In this deep dark night...

I've lost the comforting...

Composed By: Andrew Drucker