Yesterday was blue.....
Please make today beautiful.

To fill a bag with dreams
you must first sew the leather
stitch by stitch
until it can be filled with
the depth of desire
to accomplish brilliance
you must find your muse
I found mine.
its courage is infectious
it teach you to succeed
bit by bit
day by day
count each day that passes
it brings you closer to
absolution.

I yearn for a beautiful mind.
I sit crossed legged on the floor a foot from my tall bookcase, trying to absorb the wealth of knowledge that hides between the pages. If only I could stop time and read them all. I would read everything.
I would read the lines on every person's face, the history of each road and the story behind each wood, but time is forever chasing me.
I have put a bookmark in the pages of life, perhaps when I am old I will have the mind I so wish to have.

I find something beautifully heartbreaking about the sound of a string quartet playing in a minor key. As the first bow glides across the strings my heart moves in ways unknown to me. I close my eyes and imagine I am a fallen leaf floating atop a crisp flowing stream; the sun shines blissfully, the white clouds sporadically dance in formless waves across the blue sky, and though I am surrounded by passing beauty I feel the inevitable damnation for what approaches. We all know where the mountain stream leads. Ancient rock stands carved by the clawing marks of running water, desperately trying to escape its fall. With each bar played my heart sinks a little further as I know the end approaches, and when it does I find myself falling; at first gracefully, then as quick as it all began, it ends. The end is never quite as beautiful as you first hope it to be, because it is the end, and what is truly beautiful, never really dies.

I see the cluster
of stars that are lit
in the heart of your eyes
I watch the crease
of your lips curl
into a wicked smile
and I know then
that in that moment
we are drawn
to each other
like magnets
neither one of us able
to pull away
a fatal attraction
born in the torrid
flame of desire

I look up to a clouded sky
filled with dragons.
Its once bleak, pale
rolls of imprisoned rain,
now illuminated in
strikes of red gold and
yellow.
a flighty beast that
rules the empty space above,
it looks down in pity
to our shameful selves.
We do not run,
no
we are too afraid to run,
instead we cower,
and cry mercy,
though we deserve none.
So we die exactly the way
we were born,
screaming
afraid
and blind to the truth of life.

I cut myself
picking up the pieces
of your already
broken heart

- Carson Hurley

I caught her eye from across the dim lit room,
as she sang on the small stage.
Her voice was like a Whistling Thrush
and it stole my breath.
She smiled at me
and never before had I seen such beauty.
She made me weak in the places I once felt strong.
Her voice,
her bright eyes,
and her coquettish smile,
they made me feel vulnerable,
but I did not care.
I was captured by her inexorable splendour,
and she imbued my love, fiercely.
I knew I had to speak to her,
to tell her how wonderful she was,
and how incredible she made me feel.
As she finished her song,
and skipped down from the stage,
I watched, painfully as she fell into the arms of another man.
He did not look at her the way I did,
nor would he ever.
Though sometimes, our greatest love,
will never know who we are.

My youth has slipped past
and I  am constantly
finding myself staring back,
trying to catch a glimpse of
of what happiness looked like.

I                Feel               Old.

Tired.
Like a worn out boot
thats trodden too many stoney
paths.
I haven't any pace left in me.

Most of the time I am too afraid to write.
Scared of the poor grammar,
or the incorrect punctuation that haunts me,
because I didn't listen in school.
I found other interests,
like fornication and petty theft
of the hearts of my female friends.
What a sucker I am.
Lost in laughter and love,
and now abandoned in the practise of
my own language.
I shouldn't care,
why should I?
Its the story not the words that counts.


Perhaps I will write again.

Or perhaps I will fornicate and drink,
until the darkness of my soul drowns me.

This bottle
I try to escape it
but each time
I find myself
back at the bottom.
I'm spinning
lost and incomplete.
I would never be so far in,
if it was not for you
walking so far out.
I am trapped in my
own damnation,
compelled by madness,
poisoned by whiskey.
I am a prisoner
inside my broken mind.

I wrote a song the other day,
it was in a minor key
but believe me it was
far from sombre.
I wrote it about girl,
she doesn't know me,
but I know that if she
did, she would love me.
the way I do from afar.
My song is silent to her,
but to me its lasting.

I wrote you a song
but I couldn't use the
the sweetest chords
as it would be a lie,
and I seek only
honesty in my life.
I tried to sing
but I was lost for words,
I know you stole them,
you did so in the same way
that you stole my heart.

I made a friend
as I drank alone.
I watched him
and he watched me.
I pitied him
and I know he pitied me.
he's barely a life
yet I am the lowlife.
They say the flies
go to ****,
I guess I know
what that makes me.

So, I read something beautiful.
'The spaces between your fingers
were created so that another's
could fill them in.'
I am unsure who wrote this,
but they made my morning.

Don't be like anyone else,
you will just become a cacophony of bad habits.
Don't be like anyone else,
not when you can be yourself,
be perfectly different,
your own habits will become a signature of individuality,
where it like badge,
be proud
be brave
be different.
Don't be like anyone else,
just be you.

I have been plagued with a black page for three days now.
I visited the doctors this morning and he prescribed a walk along the beach front, and failing that told me to draw a glass of bourbon, smoke a straight and search for an inner demon that I can expel onto the page.

I couldn't muster the energy for any of his prescriptions, so I swam in the bath, using a beer bottle as a snorkel, drowning myself in apathy.

My page is still blank.....

Love is timeless
lasting, and brilliant.
Its not perfect,
nor ever will be.
But in its imperfections
it becomes  honest and true.
Love is colour,
its shape
it can be the light
and dark of every moment
in its timeless forming shape.
clueless babbling is the true
infection of blinding love.
I know I am babbling
but I know I am in love.

The city sleeps among its incandescence,
however,
she does not.
she watches,
she waits.
Locked in the safety
of her ivory tower,
her pale nakedness
becoming a silky glow in
the dim light of the room.
She is imprisoned
by her beauty,
though she is loved by many
she loves only one.
She waits up for him,
as a stranger
to the sea of sheets
that cling to her bare legs.
She hears footsteps
from down the hall
and questions,
is it her lover?
or is it another
who insists to pay for
her love.
She works the night,
a high end harlot.
Her sorrow wanes
like a wounded cry from
a beaten wolf.
Knuckles wrap against
the hotel door,
and she turns her gaze
from the city outside the window,
her hair moving
like dancing rays of
stolen light.
She reaches for the lipstick
on the night stand,
and walks bare skinned
and beautiful to the door.

We moved quickly in the night,
our weapons heavy in our hands.
We fought fiercely through to a ****** dawn,
making our final stand.
Those among us that died
were the heroes of the tale,
those that died were the lucky ones.
The rest of us, the ones denied a warrior's death
had to return home.
We were the ****** few
shattered and broken boy soldiers
left to fight the war
still raging inside our broken minds

I saw it, if for only a brief moment,
that side to you that you keep hidden
amongst the shadows.
Your eyes bleed danger
and the charming smile, was
after all,  not charming by any means,
instead it was filled with malice.
There are not words to describe the fibre
of your evil.
Your actions mark the page beyond what
mere words can say.
I am ashamed to call you apart of me,
so I must turn away from this mirror,
and never look again.

It is true to say that my life
has been a series of turbulent
twists and turns
the lows were deep
and the highs only just broke the surface
and kept me from drowning
but one thing was for sure
when we collided my heart had
never been so full.

If I was a painting
I would be the chewed up canvas, dashed in disgruntled colours,
torn from the easel in dismay and cast aside in neglect.

I am a failed first draft that nobody wants to read.

Last night I dreamt that Charles Bukowski chortled at my attempts to be brilliant.
He laughed so hard he creased the ominous glow of the moon in two,
leaving little light for me to find my way out of the **** dream.
I was stuck for hours.
Going round
and
round
and
round
and
round.
Until suddenly I woke.
A thin veil of hope slicing through the blinds,
But I did not want to open them.
The sick part of me regretted waking up at all.

The man's heart aches,
but his woe is lifted by
the desire of having his bed
warmed by foolish fornication.

The bottle is empty
yet his head is filled
with demons,
the conversation is
macabre yet hard
to translate from the
transient slur of speech
caught between his
tongue and teeth.

His cigarette won't light
from the naked flame
at the end of his finger,
something inside him
burns leaving the belly
of life marred by its
fervent addictions.

God hates him profoundly
but he's cool with that.

How have I wound up to be so quenched
of laughter, and beautiful conversations?
Does the silent sadness play a sorrowful tune
in the darkest depth of my despair?
How can a man move forwards
in such a bitter gale.
I fear that all I can do is lay down to die......
In my inexorable death,
torment has its final wicked way.

I broke a glass
and the shards of destruction
were more beautiful
than any diamond
I have ever seen.

It started with a flash
then it all came at once.
A tumble of broken lives,
shattered dreams
and hopelessness.
My last moments were captured
in a fogged tundra of despair,
confronted by the screams
of my past.
I cry....
'Is this my end?'
Nothing answered,
just a cold silence
and the sinking feeling
that I had not done enough.
Who are we,
if we leave no mark behind.
We must all endeavour to stain
the world with who we once were.

Has me inebriated,
intoxicated,
spiralling to levels of
desperation.
But nothing will stop me,
not even myself.

Hazel eyes and long curls of chocolate hair,
these were just what caught me first.
Clean skin, unspoiled, never marred
by the crooked calloused hands of man.
She was and always will be the paragon
of beauty, and to only smell her was
more intimacy than I probably deserved,
but it carried me through my days,
searching for that perfection.
It was an intoxication that poisoned me
day in and day out, but it was the kind
I begged for.
flagellation of the soul.

The meeting of two
is the becoming of one,
through love and lust
does love create some.
We create life,
through love,
and we last forever
from here and above.

I seem to have lost my liking for you.
We were close once, but now we have drifted,
like a stem of birch in a tumbling river,
you drift.
Like the name of a forgotten friend, we reunite
but your name does not come to me.
I am a gutless swine to forget something so perfect.
I am merely angry at myself.

I slip between the crevasse that parts my mind.
Its an equal split from sanity to the obscene.
I am trapped in the middle, clinching on as the
precipice on either side begins to crumble.
If I slip, I do not know what darkness awaits me below.
I may even fall through to a place of pure white snow.
Yet I hang on tight, hoping for a tall breeze to lift me out.

His name is Murphy.
Its funny old name,
for a dog.
When I wake,
I know he's there,
happy to see me.
When I sleep,
I know I am safe.
There is no love lost,
between a man's best friend,
for meticulous misgivings
do not exist.  

When I drink too much
and struggle the next day,
I know comfort is a mere
whistle away.
You clear my head,
and inspire me.
I see the look of freedom
spread across your face
each and every time
we walk across the fields.

I raise a glass,
to my dear best friend.

Remember me?
I was the one always there.
I was the light when
reality rained showers
of shadow.
Remember me?
You said we would be inseparable,
yet somehow we have drifted so far.
It hurts to know we used to be so close,
like brothers.
Times change I get that,
seasons wither the great oak,
but it still returns to its strongest.
We were strongest together,
yet you never came back.
You went away,
but did not return.
How selfish.
To give your life for everyone else
when I would wish to just have you.
I am alone now,
I just hope you are with me,
in spirit.

Today I saw the world
inside my father’s smile.
It was a brand new world
peaceful
pleasant
and joyous.
There was warmth
and light
and love,
inside my father’s smile.
If I could capture a moment
and hold it forever in my sight,
it would be that moment,
inside my father’s smile.

It was not God that brought me back from the
sandy hell that they called war.
It was not luck that let the bullets splash around my feet,
and not let one out of the many that faced me, destroy me.
It was love. That was my protection. Un-quenching, un-dividing , perfect love.
The kind of love that you cant simply look for. A lasting love, a love that will still be hear after the pages from the poets that have written about it, have degraded to little more than dust in a frail breeze.

My thanks is to love.

The time that slips
effortlessly by
the things we miss
from eye to eye
the life we want
the life we love
the life we dream
gifted from above
you fail this
and you fail that
you fail to see
what life is about
you understand
the smallest things
but let slip by
the cruelest happenings
you are life
you are life
you are my life
and that is all
a life that i love
a life for all

I guess this is a place for the damaged souls to come?
Take a ticket, stand in line and quench our misery.

I once knew a happy writer........That sounds like the start
of a bad joke, but its true.
He was inspirational.
He soon became a drunk, lost in a sea of
cheap wine, blinded at the surface by an
ebbing flow of cigarette smoke.
That was the way of it,
he slipped from the precipice of happiness
and cascaded down into that ocean of despair.

I swam out to try and find him,
but I myself got lost at sea,
drunk on misery, for I had lost my
dearest friend.

I am still here
floating,
alone.
Lost at sea.

So marred by war
was the soul that
I adored

what was before
so easily filled with
love
bares now a fruitless
attempt not worth
its salt
rather now it be
consumed by
destruction

I saw a light on this day

it came from my dear dogs eyes.

A bright light I must say

for it held me,

captured in its admiration 
and honest love. 

I have known many ways to love,

though some perhaps left unsaid,

but this was one time I felt

must be spoken of.

A love for honesty,

and beauty,

and pride and fortitude.

This dog had it all. 

My best friend, 

my proudest conversation.

I salute you, 

dearest companion,

for your loyalty,
it is truly 
unmatched.

I am a slave to winters ruin.
My skin
torn by the eastern wind,
and the once torrid flame
in my heart
has now become a marred
flicker of light.
Where is the passion?
The soul?
The love?
Since when did silent
whispers cut like
Damascus steel?

I can only guess
that is since losing you........

Someone else can write my story
once I have finished living it
and through its brilliance it has claimed my life.

That east wind clawed at my skin
leaving me fragile again
I was once impervious
to reckoning
but now every element
guffaws at how weak
I have become
the shrill call of the
night birds humiliate me
for I am alone again
far apart
and torn at heart