when i write you in

you are my unfinished poem
the words that i want to write
but can't seem to mold my lips around
the message that is left with a fragmented sentence
more commonly known as an incomplete thought
you are the misspelled word
the troublesome word that i've heard, o i've heard a thousand times but can't quite get my nimble fingers to relate it to the page
you are like the pen with no ink
the pencil with no lead
the inspiration with no release
you are the perfect utensil with no means of practical use
you are the ball of crumpled paper on the floor
the once good idea that went no where
that didn't quite make it to the trash can
could be picked up and reexamined
could be recycled
could be left there as a sign of what was
of what could be again but better
you are my unfinished poem
staring me in the

blindmanstrot

the Schizophrenic Actor plays the part on every page
deliberate & demanding
becoming first nun than sage

the Schizophrenic Actor knows not their own true form
mastered & martyred
their character is their norm

i do not speak of stage or screen
i speak plainly of human race
who gallop round without a sound
and never truly seeing

The stench of solitude

My ass it hurts from sitting for so long
My mind goes weary
clearly theres something wrong
My ass it hurts from sitting for so long
o but here in my chair
there is only joy everywhere
My ass it hurts from sitting for so long
O But my darling
is this not calming
My ass it hurts from sitting for so long
Get up and move it
grove it and travel on

ThecoloroftheORANGE

:Note to Reader: This I pulled out of my files from my younger days, or rather circa 5th grade.

Orange is the leaves falling falling

pumpkins face calling calling,

Orange is the alley cat

talking everything chit chat;

Orange is the joyous type

Orange is the fruit just ripe,

Orange sherbet on a hot day

cooling down from the rough hot play;

Orange is the day begun

Orange is the day all done.

the2

:disclaimer: This has yet to be edited but I got so excited and decided that it could be kept hostage in my journal no more.

Full of years he spins his tale like a well oiled machine

Wisdom pours out onto the naive one across from him

Eyes wide, glowing pride, mystified by the world

His cigarette lights the room, a small speck of illumination

The ashes cling to the tip, afraid to fall, afraid to land

He gives it a little tap and they all dance gracefully to the tray

The man of years listens, he is almost deaf

The girl speaks quietly, unsure of her words

They communicate through looks and excessive hand motions and laughter

She does not need to speak up

He does not need to perk up

He is eager to share his thoughts

She is eager to share her dreams

He has experienced many things

She has many things yet to experience

He sits in his chair

She can't sit still

Generations vivid in the room

Traditions shine through

Listen and you can hear

Watch and its made clear

Ones new path is often an extension of previous roads

A Sentence

a sentence

blank in meaning

disconnected

& lonely

lost in the world of literature

finds the mind of a poet

who stretches

& paints & stylizes

the sentence

giving it meaning

& rhythm & rhyme

tells a tale

a story of a life

winding in many other sentences

just like this one

to create emotion

& a consciousness of thought

:disclaimer: I believe that words are powerful and if this offends anyone than think about opening your eyes a little wider.

Fuck is banned, Beep replaced

I wonder at times if societies laced

too tightly in their shoes

making their faces blue

with lack of air

Reality is wrong, Media is right

God would never fight this fight

social norms rule the forms

that we're forced to sign

as a sign of life

Shit is a shock, Damn is deranged

Sex is scandal and Nude is blamed

we're humans it's fine

stop being so divine

we are we

The moonlight dancer.

like a horse running free.
a bird flying from a tree.
is a girl running shoeless.
running through the world being careless..

her hair traipsing behind her.
shimmering in the sun.
her skirt billowing as she runs.
she knows nothing but of this she’s sure.
she knows not her destination.
because she reaches it with every infatuation.

she’s a moonlight dancer.
moving her body to the faint light.
dancing for the man in the moon.
loving that it won’t end anytime soon.

letting her feet take her away.
though in one place she will never stay.
she’s always looking for new encounters
to match or better the one’s around hers.

she looks for companions to join her journey.
they are her sole motivation.
living for the sensation of living.
living for the freedom God’s giving.

in an alleyway
i watch the parade march in front of me
Their step unifying the group
i stand solo alone single
a mysterious Hand
pushes me forward
i fear the Group
unable to turn away
unwanting to go forward
incapable of a say
the parade marches onward
Left right Left
like a drum
thousands millions of Them
all in a row content of Their fate
do i march onward
do i flee
will the Hand controlling me
ever let me be
the Hand that guides is a helpful Hand
i know not how to march
the beat however is familiar
i stand learning until my time comes
to leave my hideaway
and jump into the street
how will They greet me
Who will meet me
the parade marches onward
unaware of me
than a Hand pulls while the Other pushes
catapulted forward
Left Right Left