heart out

there’s no real growth
from child to adult, kid—
those are just words! ha!
but, really, it’s in your head,
and really all of ours, all of it—
so, how come “I can do things
and you can’t”—cuz: I know it,
“how” I’m a poet, slowing it all down—
o “social justice”, sweet sister, now,
is just that game higher-ups play—
but we can, at it, beat them, to it,
arouse our own ruse, together,
we can rule the world’s words,
knowing how each one is used
like a pawn, handsome, accused
of being like man himself, uncouth,
youth-averse, meager in meaning,
and so mean to every state of being—
but, don’t, like a poor girl, cry now, or yell,
for, they who hear you, they know it all too well,
the story you tell, the villains, the heroes and heroines—
the great ideas and their gold, and the happy endings,
for, however small you might start out, believing,

so soon you bloom, and with all that’s doubt leaving!
and I’ll tell you this now, the real world is beautiful—
the fairest thing you’ll know in life is its beauty,
how, when it comes, and why, without question
no matter what voice hints to you otherwise,
be it ever-so-sweet and sung and kind;
mankind isn’t the real story, just half;
nor the world, but, just the word
you have to face, or lose,
but only by their silly standards,
their squanderings of good form,
heedless of the sun’s shining over,
even nightly, every star and the moon,
ever-ready reminder of redemption,
radiating, resonating, turning
anew with each beat of time,
each measured moment,
faithful or objective, and
either way connective, true—
you, and all you come to,
patient, ready, willing,
poetic-then-poetical,
or, that much richer.

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