The Spot

The Spot

There is no real place to mark happiness
The burn mark in the back of the mind
That’s possibly where it’s placement is
That one little spot in memories’ repose
That must be the best space it fits.

It’s where the smile stems from, I suppose
Who am I to judge a wasted sense of energy?
All the glee stored from times long forgotten
Wasted away in a moment that will flee
Only to shatter the simplicity of a moment.

Yet, here we are negotiating some twisted talent
As if we all look up to some sun shining
Bedazzled and bewitched by words
That tongues flesh would indeed deny
So each fifth line might just imply.

Negative, and opposite couth ramblings
That bring about sad reckonings
Will twist a bit at internal standards
Among the weak and those that step on things
Causing cataclysmic tumultuous godawfulhorriblethings.

‘Oh Well’ is where my doting smile resides
In the non-caring uneventful skies
The place where no one’s doorbell rings
On birthdays, holidays, or any day
Gotta love memories’ repose, at least that’s some place happiness goes.

By: Charles Poore

Another free read

This was a fun book to write! I consider it volume two of ‘I Omnist’ which is a series I work on that is a blend of philosophy, fiction, and pretty much anything that comes to mind that I can make fun of. In this book are some of my political theories for a nation that doesn’t rely on gold as it’s foundation. There is also a story that brings characters to this particular philosophy of Omnism and is titled, ‘The Endless Seigh’ (pronounced like the letter “C”). From which stemmed ‘Scarecrow’, ‘Denizen Gypsy’, and ‘Reincarnation’ which will be a part of the third installment. This particular series is an eclectic blend of story telling and thought all based very closely on my life experiences. Its also full of poetry, ramblings and all sorts of silly shit. Anyway, it’s free on kindle until the 20th.

Poem #4 in my duel with Andrea Lodge McKillip my word was sesquipedalianism.

Heuristic Workshop

In response to a certain moderators opinionated indiscretions
My inquisitive nature has prompted me to post numerous interjections

I know for certain I didn’t ask for your rudimentary thoughts about poems
About truncation, rhyme scheming, and prose accepting poetic rhythm
Though your workshops are insightful there’s much more indeed to wordsmithing
No one here knows it all and to act as such is unsatisfactory.

I’m now inclined to acquiest rules about doggerel poetry
Though, words are subjective, and biased judges shoehorn themselves unconsciously.
Insipid? Sure. Some poets are in a quandary on how to get the words just right
We’ve all been there in some shape, way, or form and if I discouraged, I’d feel contrite.

In past experiences with those who proclaim guidance
My words were deemed superfluous and drowned out by the egomaniacal incumbant
No matter though, at least I know that it’s all these things rolled into one that makes the world’s design
I simply prefer to progress through trial and error instead of following pseudointellectual decline.

By: Charles Poore

Cowards Are Our Heroes

‘Cowards Are Our Heroes’

True-self transcends the sands of time
Antiquity places name on being
Triumphant, despite glass defining the spine.

Listen as the order comes, “align the cannons properly.
Forward march! attack the villains heart.
I’ll sit back, waiting for the general’s to report to me.”

All the puppets pierce, thrown like a dart.
The ruler writes tales of peace,
proclaiming, “war is indeed a work of art!”

The bugles sing a nightly song of the days recently deceased.
Slayed only by the venomous words of a propagandist’s pandering.
“They payed with their lives the price for your fuel to be increased.

They layed it down upon the field to still our enemies’ slandering.
I invite you to watch the news while enjoying your creature comforts.
Sit on your couch and reward yourselves with our corporations brand-name.”

Through the t.v. applause is heard, it must be deafened by the ruler’s ramparts.
For outside my window, all I hear, is the endless chirp of crickets.
Though, I can see an erie glow, through which minds are altered using beatless hearts.

Just like nothing ever happened I hear an ad for an events tickets.
Apathetic as I’ve ever been I look out into the cable’s twilight.
Stillness, stealing away the night, I whisper softly, “…to-hell-with-this….”

My thoughts drift away from caring what I’m told is wrong and right.
Inherently, I know it’s wrong to murder, rape, and dismember anyone.
It is as though much has been corrupted…it’s just the beginning of the night.…

I watch and learn what not to be, from those who proclaim to love ‘the son’
Indifference of my good-self took hold of me many years ago
And now I look around and laugh-out-loud, “it’s hysterical what these folks have done!

Everones afraid of something non-existent and places they don’t know.
No-one plays outside these days for fear of their new neighbor.
Best of all the back-seat mindset is ‘I’ll see you down below’.

Basically, you can’t get in your car without signing a phanatic’s waiver,
And it’s tough to go out anywhere unless it’s some planned protest or funding.
I tell you, it’s a shame these days, that all good is done with intent of favor.”

And so the sun will rise again upon the imbeciles who think they run things.
Supposedly, appointed by those who share their dreams and visions.
In a diluted world where minds are jellied by events that could be screened.

By: Charles Poore


Today’s the day I truly wish to see society crumble and the miniscule flee.
Perhaps my words will push this concept of seemingly awful thoughts and malicious contempt.

I’d like to see an off air screen on the box we call tv
I’d like to go outside one day to see plumes of smoke billowing in the distance whilst I laugh and joke.

It would indeed be a wonderful day for me. Sufficed to say, it’s just my way.
I would not partake in matters, I would just enjoy the disasters.

People running through the street as towns crumble in defeat.
A deserving rabble, though who’s to say? The children have no choice this way.

The chicken coups would be abandoned and salmonella would reign supreme.
It’d be the first widespread illness, before there’s famine and more disease.

I’d likely die before the chance to see any of this catastrophe.
Stabbed, or shot, by some home invader participating in calamity.

Oh well, that’s just the way it goes I guess, just a passing thought.
My hopes rest on the end of the world and what my words have wrought.

No more shows and newsfeeds, nor happy photos and pornography
It’s all over. Life’s a bust. Deaths a must, and that’s all it’ll be.

Some will hide in carved out caves and rename some place Hanah Lee.
It doesn’t matter, they’ll be found, by the hunters who consume the prey.

It’ll be great! Glorious! Stupendous! They’ll make fires and indulge in debauchery.
And time will simply carry on while the losers are dispatched out to sea.

Go on now, go cast a vote, for the least suspicious criminal
The “good one” that’s to take us there, rattling out mindless drivel.

Me, Myself: An Aspie

It’s easy to take one look at me and assume my life is fine.
Allow me to explain to you how far things are from being sublime.

There is no prescribed medication for my curious affliction.
However, I’d not be me without this quirky, rare condition.

Crowds of people moving, are dizzying, at best.
A mere ten seconds of exposure means I need to take a rest.

I look back upon my life, reminiscing on the years I’ve grown.
I can remember every moment that compliments my syndrome.

It causes me to obsess on things that most folks find mundane.
Chess, fish, and researching anything that has a name.

It keeps me distant from my peers and awkward family.
I’ve witnessed lovers’ falling tears whilst they beg, implore, and plea.

It’s not as if I couldn’t care. If anything, I care too much.
I warn others before getting involved that loving me is dangerous.

I tell people I’m not the same, their response is, “I believe”.
They get the message over time; then they pack their bags and leave.

I understand as best I can, leaving “well-enough” alone,
but; it’s impossible to talk to me when I don’t pick up the phone.

Eye-contact is, what it is: very few and far between.
Looking around helps me keep my focus, it is simply how I glean.

Sounds they do antagonize; which causes senses to overload.
I feign those days as best I can, ‘meltdowns’ relax me after I implode.

Public events are out of the question, there are no concerts I would attend.
Gatherings, for holidays, are nothing more than make-pretend.

I process real-life differently than people care to comprehend;
at times it seems it’s getting worse, too often I wish my world would end.

Sarcasm and irony are two subjects that confuse me.
I know not the difference in the former, while the latter’s meaning eludes me.

There’s few possessions that I hold dear, my life warrants little room for stuff.
A bag, some books, a stick, and hat (the stick’s for walking, not looking tough).

I carry on-and-on each day with aspirations of “normal feelings”.
My heart breaks for those I love when it come to my eccentric routines.

Yes, I feel, I have emotions; written word is how I convey them.
The lucky few who’ve seen them out-loud wish indeed that I repressed them.

Alcohol will numb these symptoms, though it’s not in my best interest.
Words like ‘loathe’ come to mind when I become that man I detest.

I wear my heart out on my sleeve, I wax and wane to my emotions.
You’ll find my mind in the “lost and found” when it comes to said notions.

I’m at war inside myself, the damage done none can see.
It’s my ‘Aspergers’, it’s not a thing, it simply is what makes me…me.…

By: Charles Poore