As the old poet already uttered,
that the enact happiness exists;
and whoever perseveres in seek,
one day he will run into its fists.

I harked to the bitter wail
of humans’ tortured souls.
My candid poesy at hand
I bring from distant lands,
to show to all beings alive
the torturous life — which is
to live on these Streets.

Streets that make an entire — a tad,
and tame the rebel with their poison.
Streets that weaken The Strongest,
and turn the happiest smile — Sad.

© R|CARDO.

— Ricardo Sexton

I’m disappointed — like I’ve been catfished.
This skepticism’s a brand new practice.
I avoid their mirror — indolence is doubt.
I’m up early, but I’m always running out.

No bird gets the worm — I see the owl.
This life is wholeheartedly cold-hearted now.
Its golden truth is priced beyond my pay.
If everyone’s somebody — who am I, anyway?

I know — I’m no different, just depicted.
Addicted, and fully permitted to pain
without relief. I’m as drab as old belief,
from crisscross to cross — ball bound to chain.

© R|CARDO.

— Ricardo Sexton

Life is too raw for euphemisms and metaphors.
In a fallen state, the fall awaits the so-called “tall.”
Wide is the buffet plate; yet hunger still the fate.
Pride will be the death of those who bite the bait.

Piglets lay amongst mud and purls — lest we forget.
Remember: the prodigal son; impatience is regret.
Fear is numb. It is flight or fight — try to land right.
The list of problems is too long for such little light.

Today is claro; perhaps there will be no tomorrow.
Miss Sorrow is “the old sow that eats her farrow.”
Who knows the meaning to [the race] we are on?
We add, it adds — and [the total] gets lost in its sum.

© R|CARDO.

— Ricardo Sexton

I do not accept apologies, ‘knowing’ you did it purposely.
Do not say sorry! If you are going to repeat it repeatedly.
They say they really love you but mean it very contrarily.
To beat yourself up is not a fair fight. – Don’t be so silly.

Stop preaching flimsy platitudes and communal façade.
Stop reaching; “Real Connection” is as real as your mask.
Let your inner facet, to the embodiment of the monster.
Let your shadow-self defeat your copied public persona.

Quit acting uniform, in a false box, under artificial lights.
Only a mirror informs and entices, reflexing life in a trice.
Do not be just an idea or the effort to hide authentic self.
There is a real you; you aren’t an entity or a thing illusory.

© R|CARDO.

— Ricardo Sexton

I am Judas; part of a sly plan—a faithful mate of Jesus.
I was chosen by Him to nail Him to the wooden cross.
Christ died as a man, a martyr of salvation, and a bail,
Leaving me—His pal, His passion—by the sign of betrayal.

He asked for another love gesture, unlike mortals said.
If I hadn’t betrayed Him, I would have a glowing head.
I would not have died twice—I would not have hung,
And I would not have managed to descend headlong.

If He hadn’t tossed me under a bus, you wouldn’t have
The myth of the cross, and “the proof” that He loves us.
If He hadn’t, a charity and your diss would honour me.
He asked me to betray Him with a kiss. I did not agree.

© R|CARDO.

— Ricardo Sexton

If paperless, I’m a victim like Kipling.
Ugly, less, deaf to laud and loud hymn.
Its distance celebrates what I once hid,
As I witness— the eyes wide shut bleed.

“We are what we eat” is a con’s greet.
My way to seconds is to vomit and eat.
I am full of myself, and yet I’m still hungry.
Keep your accolades. I chuckle at funny.

A family’s black sheep is the brave face.
There is no return, reason, nor won case.
In time, doze will amalgamate to death.
In season, the wolves define our kismet.

© R|CARDO.

— Ricardo Sexton

Safety is an illusion, but peril is steady, true.
You are deaf to the breeze’s candour encore.
You choose to stay stuck in a revolving door,
Looking down at we who walk right through.

Be grateful for errors and its see-through wall,
…while au fait that — now — is equal to before.
You’ve been blinded; the shore is too the savior.
A pickpocketer sells your wallet back to you.

Tomorrow, the wrangles will still be shallow,
And reasons remain motives — if you allow.
Praying for an end is just revisiting the futile.
Misery has no filter — save your erring smile.

© R|CARDO.

— Ricardo Sexton

–The Wolves– no longer wear sheep’s clothing,
Nowadays they stand behind personal mirrors.
It is a metamorphosis, or how “Genesis” saw it—
Like a coin in the palm of a prophet, traded for profit.

A masked face, a goad’s dare, betting on the precipice.
Thy staff as well as Thy rod – rolls down the hill
Where Thy flock dies, only to remain Cattle still.
A young shepherd is lost, still searching for that one.

(No compass, no star.) I noticed being extra focused.
Did you check The Valley of Shadow of Death?
For that is where “The Immortals” tend to rest.
Why lies? If you know the hue of heaven’s tiles.

© R|CARDO.

— Ricardo Sexton

I fear not the man who practiced 10,000 kicks once,
nor the man who has practiced one kick 10,000 times.
There’s so much truth, while we pretend to be kidding.
Ignorance is bliss—for you, who benefits from its bidding.

It was never how it was; it was always how it had to be.
I accept how simple it is—never how it could have been.
Before I settle for belief, I pedal what I already know.
The strings are detached now, until it is my time to go.

Only truth sets free. It’s no longer what I choose to see.
My voice is unfamiliar to your fear—none can mute me.
Venom & Savagery is the pageantry they have for me.
Save it—for nil will teach what being lonely taught me.

I tried to control my frontal lobe, when in the back of
my mind I knew: prudence isn’t dispensed as last place.
Life laughs, lived to the fullest—death alone disagrees.
Your heaven is wonderful; you’ll fail a fool immediately.

© R|CARDO.

— Ricardo Sexton

Be sure that what you have is worth
Everything you have lost — to get it.
Although, in our eyes, we are heroes,
“Baddies” are what mirrors reflect.

If we cannot admit to valid mistakes,
How can we learn from veiled aches?
If it is not about the chanting we lost,
Why are we dying for the living cost?

No coincide — understand your pride.
I’d say, do not let it stand in your way.
To pretend to be “friends” is a suicide;
Like a feeling we can neither describe.

© R|CARDO.

— Ricardo Sexton