Great tragedy suffered,
Impossible circumstances conquered,
The warrior walks upon the field flanked path.

The wanderer's armor tells a tale,
Battle scarred and partially rent asunder,
A face of stoicism that hides the haggardness underneath,
Peeking out beneath the mask of a hardened soldier.

The clouds clap ahead, preceded by flashes of light brightly illuminating the world,
Accompanied shortly after by the rainfall.

A trickle becomes a downpour,
The battered individual trudging along as the road becomes a bog of mud and slop,
The message firmly planted within their mind.

Coming upon the dark outline of the castle ahead the warrior picks up pace,
Reflecting upon what would happen to those that the Warrior helped.

The pace is now fueled by a different kind of urgency.

The rain is cold upon the face's of those that it falls on,
The torn edges of metal digging in at places,
Some already wounded and tender,
As the final hilltop between them is crested.

The gates are closed,
And this loyal soldier is for the moment shut out,
A fist is raised,
The declaration of allegiance given,
An angry detailing of the warriors achievements and adventures shouted,
And a challenge of one's path,
Building in anger and fury as the dam finally breaks and gushes forth,
Threatening to shatter the gate and doors to splinters and twisted metal.

A long ago promised gift to be rewarded,
For all the things endured,
Things that could be considered so cruel,
The storm picks up in force until it's akin to that of a hurricane,
As if brought forth by the warrior's grief and pain finally being released,
For the first and only time.

These things ringing out despite the storms roaring wind,
Gathering force,
Perhaps in affirmation of the warrior's words.

After a pause the gate begins to lift,
It's metal screeching,
The doors groaning as they begin to swing outward, and the battered soldier is bathed in light,
Taking the weight from the warrior's shoulders,
As the threshold is finally crossed.

Tearing up I-75 like bats outta Hell
The radio jacked up to MAX
to be heard to the roaring of the wind,
Seeing as the top is off of the jeep

Zeppelin and The Who
Van Fleet and The White Stipes
Generations of rock
Shared by the elder and the young
Different problems faced
Yet shared circumstances

The pace is rapidly set
Like invaders they ride
Or gunslinger of the old west
Buying into the legends of their own immortality
Like a final ride  before closing that part of the past for good

Even some of that Seattle sound trickles in
A much younger and angrier Pearl Jam
Sometimes even the garage rock get a turn in the spotlight
Their pace exponentionally increases like a runaway train
It's end destined to be in a glorious and terrible wreck

The road trip is on
These rockers of all ages are on the warpath to a good time

God help us all

Self-loathing,
Self-hatred,
Guilt,
Pain,
I'll never be a good enough partner,
I'm failing right out of the gate.

I let you down,
I see it in your eyes,
I breached that trust you had in me,
And didnt live up to my own ideals,
A moment of weakness,
A moment of idleness,
Looping in my brain,
**** this tormentable guilt!

You say I get stuck in my own thinking,
Like a bird that's fallen into tar,
But thinking back,
If my brain is the tar,
I need to clean it some dawn.

Please let this storm pass,
Let the thunder die down in my mind
Let the lightning strikes fade,
For all that's holy,
May you forgive my trespasses still,
Let me be the man you said I could be,
And fly free,
Above the ooze and filth.

I sit here,
Nearly at the end of my wit's,
Don McLean is chattering on about how the quartet practiced in the park,
The sauce is 35 minutes from being complete,
A journey that started 5 hours and 25 minutes ago.
All because I wanted to try a recipe,
But I'd be lying if my taste buds didn't enjoy it.
Cooking is exhausting

As Billy Joel is pouring out to the listener,
Of a tale of patrons in a bar,
I think of what would happen to my works when I die.
Maybe I get a couple collections printed but they never really sell,
And years after my death,
One such book is found in the piles of books in an antique store.

Maybe it's a curious individual,
Amused by the art embossed on the book,
Or maybe he is an actual fan of poetry.
Maybe it's just a kid who is thinking old books are cool.

Either way the individual would read my works, gets a whole lot of hubub about it,
And years after my death I am talked about as an unsung poet of my time.

Novel idea right?

It's dark,
Shaun Morgan is bellowing into my ears that he's reliving the same experiences over and over,
That nothing's forever.

The flick of a bic,
The taste of tobacco and ash,
Filling my lungs and giving my brain a buzz,
And in this sleepless night I'm inclined to agree with him,
Nothing lasts forever,
So what are you waiting for?

You share with me your memories,
Of places I've never been,
Sharing experiences I've never had,
With people I'll never meet.

I am so grateful that you share them,
They put a pep in my step,
Make me tap my foot,
And make me turn inward,
To the man I wish to be.

Carry me away on gentle guitar pluckin,
And take me to your world,
To where I wouldn't have to be me,
To where I can be the man I wish to be.

I tap my index finger on the top of my cigarette,
The pier of ash that was building topples off the end.
The can is at my lips,
A pleasant burn on the throat when swallowed,
Imperial stout,
The warming burn reminds me of good bourbon.
The ***** beer agreeing with my palate.
A hard day started early,
My early ending is it's own reward,
To relax,
Kick back
And let the tunes carry me away.

Robin Williams once said,
"You're only given a little spark of madness, if you lose that, you're nothing."

He'd call it going Full Goose Bozo.
And in it he described it as an awareness, of how vulnerable everything is,
Including yourself,
It's the ideal of being mentally steadfast,
In your own facilities,
To be able to adapt and survive to just about any environment.
That madness is the one thing governments don't know how to tax- let alone handle.
That little spark of madness is what makes you the person that you are,
Your way of adding your mark upon history,
A brush stroke with every interaction.
And if you let it fade you will be forgotten over time.
But it can be rekindled.
Let your little spark of madness free.

It's a golden hour,
Everything framed in a gentle light,
Rounding edges like a fine-grit sandpaper,
The sky such a beautiful shade of blue.

The sunset is an interesting one,
Sherbert orange clouds topped with a subtle purple plume,
Crowned with golden-yellow cirrus.

I stand in awe of this majestic sight,
Breath swept along this noble image before me,
Casting the air exhaled on the currents of this exalted visage.

I look out at my hometown,
And what is it I see?
I see a stranger,
Bearded and haggard,
Staring back at me.

Oh, my hometown,
So filled with cherished memories,
What happened to your pastures and your fields,
Your farms and your special feel?
Where I explored so deep in my formative years,
Never able to uncover all of your secrets.

Your fields are now filled,
With cookie-cutter suburbs, million-dollar home-o-ramas, and strip malls,
Your farms a distant memory,
Your pastures destroyed and paved over,
Parking for the urban refugee.

You were a place of mystery,
A home for 8 generations before me,
But now you are nothing but a hollowed-out husk,
Gutted for profit and a name.

Mediocre rhythms,
Mediocre rhymes,
Where is it this road heads?
Take me to where the Mary Jane grows like dandelions,
Where the magic mushrooms lay thick like a carpet on the floor.

Who gives a **** where the future lay,
20 years down the line,
'Sept what regrets one has about not livin,
Grabbing the tail of the tiger of electronic sonic sound,
Flying through the airwaves so fast it makes your cheeks flap like a 90's cartoon.

BREATH! SCREAM! SHOUT FOR THE LOVE OF ******* GOD!!!
Give it your all and leave your reservations at the wayside,
Cuz we aint stopping to ****.

Spend your nights as an outlaw,
Fly by the seat of your pants,
Give a down-on-his-luck feller the coat off your back,
He sure as hell needs it more,
Curse up a storm,
Yell up to God,
CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW!

Call me manic,
Call me a *******,
Call me a brilliant man,
Carry my cold corpse to a pine box and dump it in,
Cuz I plan on saying ******* to the funeral industry,
Let the worms and the bugs have my bag of meat,
Carry on and sing a song,
Have a shot and chug a beer in my memory,
Sing a drunken song and cheer.

Strum out to me,
Oh music man,
That sweet mandolin tune,
Tell me the secrets of this world,
I'll keep it just between you and me.

I'll take my snippets of unfinished poetry,
And you take your unfinished book,
We'll mash them together into a chunk of clay,
And what results I think will do.

Let me take you in my arms,
And swing about the room,
To some merry little jig,
Only heard between us three.

Let's laugh to loud like *******,
And banter like buffoons,
Rant and rave like jabbering macaws,
And croon until we're blue.

Take care of me when I drink too heavy,
And nod along to my song,
Even though my guitar may be out of tune,
Carry my traumas when they become too crushing,
And say you love me too.

I take a minute to sip some beer,
Miller High Life and Winston's,
Shakey Graves is stomping out through the wires,
Telling the tale of a boy walking to his execution,
His head held high,
Misguided in his actions that evening,
in the waning days of summer.

The song ends, I take out a tin,
Open it up and throw in the last of the dip I had,
After that I'll be done with smokeless tobacco.

Elton John is now waxing poetically about the ideas of roses in Spanish Harlem,
His voice eloquent, nostalgic, and tear-jerkingly honest,
The loss of innocence in an idea,
Ripped asunder by the cruelty of the world at large,
If only there were one Good Samaritan,
If they were to stand up and say enough!

In the album he is but the Master of Ceremonies in the château.
Weaving great tales of happiness and woe.

And isn't that what life is,
Both the ultimate comedy and tragedy?

But what do I know?
I'm just an Average Joe.

Trickling water through a brook,
Down from the mountain and into a stream,
Gently carving into the land a tale,
A sad yet happy tune for all to hear.

Mountains to those not from here,
Hills to its inhabitants,
Safeguarding those who live here from the poisons of the modern world,
Locking away it's people in a small slice of time.

Moonshine is made here,
Where the big bucks wander,
A place where the turkey, elk, and illusive bobcat roam free,
Where the hawks, warblers, and grouse abound,
Bears trundle,
And hill folk dance and sing.

Do you remember?
When we laughed so hard,
That I lost a contact?
That little jig you did started me chuckling,
My snorts got you to join in,
My ribs hurt the next day.

Do you remember?
When I told you that I first loved you,
And you kept me in suspense?
Later on, you told me that you felt the same when I said it,
But was scared that it was too soon for you to vocalize it too,
But to be honest I wanted to tell you on our second date.

Do you remember?
When you first seemed to read my mind,
And told me exactly what was going on in my brain?
I was furious with your father,
And I wanted to snap him in two,
You just looked at me with your hypnotic green eyes,
And told me to breath,
Rubbing my shoulders as you did so.

Do you remember?
That first pregnancy scare,
Where we didn't know what we were going to do?
We were in your car,
Outside that convention we were volunteering at,
And that talk laid the groundwork for what we would eventually have to go through.

Do you remember?
Our first kiss,
Upon that restaurant roof?
Slow dancing to Tyler Childers,
Playing through the tinny speakers of a phone,
On that warm sunny day in June.

Give me that sweet soul-******* blues,
Where my heart drops,
My mood drops,
Quicker than a stone in a well of *****.

Wail out to me that poor county tune,
With the man who lost everything,
Save for his heartache and a guitar,
Where he tells me of that bad juju.

Caress me with that sad ballad,
Of that woman who you love unconditionally,
Who can't give you what you need,
Where you can't ever get back that piece of your heart,
A piece that will forever be wilted and grey.

I'll drink it up,
A sponge that is fit to absorb it,
I'll do it all live long day,
I live for it,
Maybe it's a subtle masochism,
To hold my own pains at bay.

I think back to 5 years ago,
To those days in northern New York,
Where my life felt like some coming-of-age tale,
Coming into my own.

Each day was its own chapter,
Shenanigans and hijinks,
Bar room brawls and short-lived loves,
Drunken tattoos and crutching on snow 2 feet deep,
Barracks parties and field exercise tomfoolery,
Oh, how it all seems like such a dream now.

Fleeing from authorities,
Cackling with buddies as we disappeared into the crowd to make it to the next bar,
Showing up to work on Monday with a recently broken nose, blackened eye, and ****-eating grin,
With my buddies sporting similar signs,
Our First Sergeant taking stock of these injuries,
And walking onward with a little smirk.

Walking through Watertown,
Feeling the age of that military town,
Filled with secondhand stores and oddities,
My God such a surreal dream.

Stuck in bed,
Knee wrapped up in bandages,
Protecting all the stitches beneath,
Looking out the winter at the blizzard outside,
Craving a working leg more than the percocet,
And knowing that the dream was coming to an end.

Where do these words come from?
Are they from my heart or my brain?
Do the flow forth from some great vault hidden away in my soul,
Or are they plucked freely from the wind?

Where is it that our inspiration comes from,
From the world around us,
Or from within?
Can our natures influence the world around us,
Or is it that nature that influences us?

Running down that gravel road back home,
Spitting rock from my churning feet,
Arms pumping with a determination,
Lungs burning pleasantly like they only do when you're young,
Excitement in a way that is only felt by those under 23.

Lord oh Lord,
Where did the days go?
Carry me back to when I didn't have the knees of a 56-year-old,
Before my metabolism slowed down to a snail's pace,
And I needed to watch my blood pressure and my weight.

Head a-swimmin,
Stomach queasy,
Like asking out your first crush,
Or maybe a beer or 3 too many,
I think back to when I was a teen.

Where is the line drawn?
Between hope and naivety?
Where the swelling of one's heart is nothing more than a fool's boon?
Instead of being a warming energy that radiates to the limbs?

Is it experience,
Hard won through heartbreak and loss?
Is it wisdom,
Some innate talent that some just have?

Forewarned is forearmed,
To keep the danger at bay,
But at what point does that wariness become a cage?
From what distance is everything far enough away,
To keep out the terrors of the world,
But close enough to live your life?

I'll tell you,
Bear witness to my words,
A question is your answer in this paradox,
How much are you willing to risk?

How much are you willing to lose,
How far of a fall are you willing to take,
For the sake of living your life,
For when you open yourself up to the wilds of the world,
Is when you truly start to live.

The Södenberg sisters sing to me tonight,
Their words sending me far from this slightly cold balcony,
To a realm of asphalt and dusty wind.

For my first 10 years there were no roads,
But a plethora of paths,
Criss crossing,
Winding to and fro,
Foot beaten little things in a great forest,
Filled with trees, creeks, waterfalls, and animals,
Birds singing beautiful songs as they sail through the trees,
Squirrels chattering from their perches amongst the great branches,
Whitetails observing my progress of the child .

As a young boy I'd sprint down these paths,
Unheeding of the odd roots that were placed along the paths,
So happy to just be moving forward,
To see what played around the next bend.

The next 10 years were simple things,
A two lane town road,
Buildings of my hometown on lined either side,
Their facades as they were,
Before the place of my forefathers got too big too fast,
Where all it's citizens knew my parents,
And by extention, me,
The birds and squirrels still there,
Although their number greatly diminished.

My pace was greatly diminished,
No longer some great sprint,
But a gentle jog,
Taking in the familiar sites,
But excited to leave this place,
Impatient for a change of scenery and anticipating some great adventure.

The next 3 were a treacherous yet exciting road,
A winding mountain pass,
Steep sloaped and lined with switchbacks,
Giving beautiful mountain vista views,
But with this new road also came the realization,
That the road could be a dangerous thing,
One slip could give way to a great fall,
The once gentle jog gave way to a cautious walk,
Wary of foot placement and step,
No birds here,
No squirrels,
But instead of the rumble of far off thunder,
And the howling of distant wolves.

Then came the next four,
The thunder no longer far off,
The wolf howls no longer distant,
The asphalt cracked and split,
Closed in on both sides by a thick and menacing wood,
And through the darkness of the nearly moonless night the darting shapes of beasts could be seen.

Rain slashing down,
Galing winds battering me,
My body worn down,
My walk but a limp,
Taking my broken self forward,
One dragging step after another,
A constant struggle to find the energy to make it one step further,
To find reason to keep going.

But like some great magic trick the wooding cleared,
The rain stopped,
And the wolves pulled back.

It was here that I found you next to me.

This new road is a bit cracked,
A bit disused,
The desert beautiful with Mesas to either side,
My pace quickened,
No longer a slogging trudging thing,
But also not a run,
A relaxing stride that feels good and steady,
Churning onward to the mountains in the distance.

I look to you and you smile,
You smile back,
And it is here that I see hawks up above,
A fox to the far right,
Observing these travelers passing through it's lands.

No longer an unlined face,
Bearded and festooned with a smattering of scars,
Earned through foolish fights and terrible tumbles,
But gladly won and worn all the same,
Sun kissed skin taking in the pleasant warm arid air.

I know not where this road leads,
But the excitement returns once more,
And that I no longer need to travel it alone,
That traveling is never meant to be done all on one's own,
That it's the company that makes the trip worth it.

With that the duo's song ends,
And I am transported back to this balcony,
The air still clung to with the slipping grasp of winter's last vestiges,
And it's begrudging release so close at hand,
Bring forward new beginnings,
And new roads to be traversed.

Excitement!
Anticipation!
Dread and Gloom!
All these emotions running through my head to name a few.

Taking the plunge,
And self-publishing one's first book,
Uncertain of this loving recreation's first foray into the world,
Will it be loved?
Will it go unread?
Only time will tell for this collection of prose and truth.

Calm hearts,
And charitable minds,
All my thoughts are shattered glass,
At such a moment and time.

Where I feel like I need to shout at the top of my lungs,
Veins in my forehead bulging,
Face scrunched up,
A roar akin to some great wounded animal,
One who has some wicked spear in its side.

But it is not out of anger, pain, or pride,
Instead, it is from all the energy still in my body,
Begging to be let out.

A tiger in a cage,
Who paces from side to side,
The tiger that knew of the wild before,
Who wishes to get back to the jungle,
But not knowing it will ever get out.

It was a new day,
As I suited up for battle,
A new campaign,
Something sure to leave the uninitiated rattled.

A polo shirt to defend against the piercing stares of haughty individuals,
A thermos of coffee,
To brain the sandman with when he arrived with reinforcements mid morning,
Neatly combed hair to camouflage myself as just another drone,
Plucking away and invisible to predators.

As I sit down at my desk
I take a look out the window at the rain,
And imagine I was out in it,
For the rain is much more enjoyable.

But fear not,
I still have my secret weapon,
Devastating to the enemies of fun.
A power so great it will ensure that I will never fully succumb to the forces of drudgery.


I raise my pantleg a bit to take a peek at my crazy socks,
Instantly making my day better

Proclaim to me a trade,
For every crumb of food in the land,
Every drop of wine,
Every glimmer of gold in the realm,
And still I wouldn't trade it for a singular moment of time.

Time ticking down,
Like the guttering of a dying flame,
So close,
Can nearly taste,
Where you and me will soon be three,
When our son we can finally meet.

I can picture his little hands,
His oh-so little feet,
Eyes as big as plates,
So filled with possibilities and innocence,
A pitcher for you and me to fill,
With kindness and glee.

But it seems so far away,
Still seems like a bit of a dream,
That the hypothetical seems to still carry me,
On a cloud,
Gently floating,
On an azure dream.

I look out upon the valley,
Where we lived out millions of lives,
All of our hopes and heartaches,
Births and deaths,
In that valley of flowers and dreams.

I met you so many times,
And each of those times I was blessed,
For in the few where we never met,
My heart ended up hollow and blank.

We struggled at times,
And sometimes we even failed,
But always together,
Never alone,
Not once adrift upon a sea of regrets.

You bolstered me in my aspirations,
Gave me courage and strength I knew not,
To conquer the mountains that seemed so insurmountable,
Where angels and demons were hesitant to trod.

Each of your deaths were a knife in my heart,
In those instances where I outlived you,
I broke into a million jagged pieces,
Lost without my guiding star.

But each time I would be able to slowly heal,
Brought back together by your future love.

I know not if we've done this countless times before,
Or if we will be able to have this countless times again,
But regardless of this,
Our lives shall be forever intertwined,
In the Valley of Flowers and Dreams...

Bolting upright,
In a valley oh so green,
Adorned in white,
And seeing clouds dot the sky,
I realize with a starling realization,
"Oh ****, I guess I died."

Make my way to the barn I saw,
See a spread on a table 30 foot wide,
I see Jesus with all his fellers,
Laughin' while sippin on wine.

I walk up to the Son,
And ask if I can have a seat,
He gestures to the empty seat to his left,
Apparently, he was waiting for me.

As Jesus laughs at a joke from John the Baptist,
I take a sip from my glass with a trembling hand,
Looking at our savior a gather the gumption to ask him an important question to me.

As he turns to me I feel my stomach drop,
He says,
"Go on my friend and ask."
I say to him,
"Oh Lord, how is it this came to be?"

He ponders this over a bite of trout,
Gesturing me to take a bite of my own.
As I chew on the tender meat he swallows and says.

"My boy, you were a bit gruff,
and crass I may say,
But you believed in me and dispite your rougher edges,
You never lost your faith."

I looked over to James,
Who's talking to Matthew,
Debating the best kind of fly for fishin,
And Jesus continues to me.

"While you stumbled a time or two,
And did some things that made me shake my head,
You did your best to be a better man,
So for that you can join in on this little meal,
and feast here with my friends."

I take in the scene before me,
The surrealness of it all,
And a smile creeps along my face,
But quickly falls with the same pace,
"But what of my family Jesus,
Are they alright after my death?"

He turns to me,
A smile in his eyes,
and lays my concerns at ease.

"They'll grieve you,
and in time they'll just join you here,
But for now let's finish up,
Because Mary makes a mean cobbler"

It's late out,
Michael Trent and Carry Ann Hearst are spinning me a tale,
Of which they constructed around the end,
Of two Musicians,
Crossing paths many a time on the road of life,
To only find out their paths soon merge.

Now ain't that interesting?
To think of those we meet at crossroads,
Only to find out soon enough they are the ones you come to rely on most.

Crossroads,
So many crossroads,
To weave a pattern much like a tapestry,
Where do your crossroads lead?

Neil Young is on now,
A song written in a time that he was homesick,
In lands far away,
Even though he had no home to go back to.

A place where it's lush and green.

There's a Russian word for an ache like that,
It's called tocka,
A great longing and anguish,
With nothing to long for.

I saw you in the aisle of the supermarket,
And I just realized this is the first time I've thought of you in years,
Like an anchor that was cut loose decades ago discovered by divers,
Covered in barnacles and rust.

I just remembered you still have one of my guitars,
And wonder if you still have that mug we made on one of our dates,
The one you used every morning when we dated,
I wonder if you still drink that horrid tasting tea.

When was the last time you thought about our trip to New York City,
Where we first saw the Statue of Liberty,
Do you remember comforting me at the World Trade Center Memorial,
When I was overcome with melancholy?

But just as quick I saw you,
You disappeared from sight,
Not spotting me in the market crowd,
Going on with your life.

Lips quirk up for a second,
I go back to shopping,
And back on with my life,
Glad with my lot and place,
Hoping that you are too,
And knowing I'll never think of you again.

Gentle strings,
Gently lull me to sleep,
Keep me in that gradient that leads to the dreamland,
To where I can find that so-great peace.

Where my greatest stories come forth,
That trial run of the final rest,
Where all men are equal,
Whether a pauper or a prince.

Chase you I will,
With fervor and intensity,
Till I'm out of breath and full of ease,
Squeaking like a piece of machinery,
In desperate need of grease.

Take pity on me,
And take my soul to the most peaceful of place,
Where my aches are gone,
My woes are arrested,
And my worries are at ease.

Jimmy Page and Towns Van Zant sit here,
Strumming out tunes in my living room,
Zant with his unique brand of country,
Page with his acoustic style that's so unique and blue.

Sounds drilling gently into the skulls of the unsuspecting,
Driving deep into the mind,
Defences cast aside at the overwhelming force of the medicine's effect,
Sending one into a journey of the mind,
Unknown depths and introspections dredged up in an unexpected discovery.

Gaining momentum,
Greater and greater,
Only to realize that this shall reach greater heights,
Heights that you will never have enough time to reach it, even if you had an extra 10,000 days.

Lapping of water upon the shore,
Footprints left in the sand erode and fade,
Giving its mark back to the beach,
Temporary and forgotten.

Roaring of the waves a crescendo of sound,
The distant bellow of the great beast that is the sea,
An eternal cry of Neptune's beast,
A warning and challenge to the brave of heart.

The struggle of water and earth,
Gaining and losing ground,
Fighting for dominance since time immemorial,
Destined to battle forever more.

Sitting in my bedroom,
That's become more of a waystation than a home,
For home to me is wherever you will be,
Zach Bryan crackles out the words I know I will think of,
When I am 20 years older,
And our son has left behind our home.

A traveler on his own journey,
Embarking to his own destination,
In time making his own mistakes,
But in them learning his own lessons,
And from that his own wisdom will be gained.

He will visit,
I know,
Although his first couple of visits will be too few and far between,
It will make you teary,
But knowing that it needs to happen all the same.

Those days to come seem so far away now,
Yet so close all the same,
But I know that we will eventually come to love every minute of it,
And wish we could live through it all again.

If you find me dead in the field,
Prop me up by the nearest tree,
Place my hat in my lap,
And face me west,
So my soul can leave with the sunset,
And my boots can finally have a reprieve.

What strange creatures are we,
Humans,
Capable of finding something that is by all means ordinary suddenly beautiful and new.

One-sided feeling,
Perpetual curiosity,
Argumentative to a fault,
Falsehoods for no good reason.

Waking up at peace with the world,
And suddenly become flooded with the awful rememberence that someone you loved was forever gone.

What odd creatures are we.

Never allowing us to truly rest on our laurels when we lose someone
Smiling upon those times with them where everything was good,
A sad smile of times lone gone,
Gone with the autumn leaves.

Oh, carry me on the winds of a sleepless dream,
Where there's fields aplenty upon the fiddler's green,
Where the woman is kind and the man is fit and clean,
Borne there upon St. Albans' wing.

Drift me off upon a fiddlers tune,
To a place where the sky is such a brilliant blue,
Where hope is abounding like those dog-days in June,
Where magnolias sprout forth like passion renewed.

****** me forth upon the lover's blade,
A more precarious place no other man can claim,
Where hope and love balance upon a precarious edge,
So easy to tumble off into that dark and void-filled death.

To be in such a state,
forsaking sleep,
Carries me to this strangest of dream,
For without such abstention,
And lack of means,
My creativity floweth out into an endless stream.

Take a breath,
A deep, lung filling breath,
Exhale,
And realize that you are one breath closer to the end of your time here on this planet.
To some there is a life after this,
At least I hope so,
And to others we are just an ember dying in the air,
Just a second or two of existence in the grand scheme of it all,
And all we have left to mark our time is by the deeds we've committed,
Our mark on history.

I had a dream,
Where I was on top of a mountain,
Staring at the sunset, and its effect on the shadows in the valley,
An older man was there,
We hadn't needed words,
For we already knew what the other had to say.

Carry through the light of the pines,
Where the fog drifts gently,
Where the birds pleasantly sing.
Where the strangers are kind,
Dress strangely,
So different from these car-choked streets,
And nobody knows anybody else's names,
Where the waitresses don't know your usual,
And the coffee tastes like burnt beans.

Where the Friday night football is a family event,
Even if the rugrats aren't in high school yet,
Where the number of trucks outnumber the cars,
And the rust spots adorn the bodies like badges on a decorated soldier,
And the mud is still spattered on the sides.

Come to me,
Oh look and see,
Please tell me that I don't belong.

To this place,
O' to this world,
To this situation I hath rote.

But negative,
Nay I say,
Tis a situation so grand,
That it can be only sung out in the tongue of yore,
For it is only the most noble of mantles,
Of Fatherhood's door I adorn.

It shall be I,
I be armed with simple tools,
A fresh ***** or bottle,
To assuage my young liege lord's woes,
For betwixt the soggy ure or rancid scitan,
I dread knowing such knowledge,
But my sacred duties of ****** I shan't ignore.

So for now,
Oh humble bards and wanderers,
Listen to this tale no more,
Create such joy and celebration,
For upon this day,
My Firstborn son is born.

You ask me what is wrong,
When you see the explosions behind my eyes,
Staring out at a landscape that's not there.
Hearing gunshots that aren't there,
And screams of men long dead.

I brush it off sometimes,
Coming to,
Seeing the concern in your expression,
And I know that I can't lie,
But sometimes it's just too much for me to tell you,
Some things just too painful to share.

Some of it is to protect you,
Some of it is to protect me,
From that awful time in that awful place,
Where peace was so hard to find,
And impossible to see.

Sometimes I can tell you parts,
The parts you could understand,
But others wouldn't make sense to those who weren't there,
Like getting anxiety of having to get into a 110 degree porta-john to ***.

Jimmy Page rips into his guitar as I rip into some nachos,
Covered with some real toxic-spicy **** I accidentally created in the kitchen,
And suddenly Black Dog becomes an anthem to my agony.

The habanero peppers dig hooks in as the serannos and the jalapenos begin going to work,
Hitting me with staccato body blows,
Pausing but for a moment before laying in again.

It's as if the very air itself is aflame,
The sriracha's heat sears my throat and lungs,
With the cayenne peppers charring my stomach.

My eyes water,
I want to wail like Plant at the moment,
As sweat begins to gather on my brow,
The sickly sweet stink of the apple cider vinegar used laces the air and stings the nose,
****** hair practically gets singed as it passes.

Page let's loose a riff with his instrument that imitates my heartbeat,
As the heat finally grows too high.

I reach for my only lifeline,
Something almost as terrible as the devil's ketchup itself.

I take the mason jar and take a swig,
And another fire snuffs out the one currently raging in my esophagus and brain.

My breath fast,
Blinking hard and quick,
As the song fades along with a bit of my happiness at creating something so wicked,
As I grab another chip...

Snow falling slowly,
Muffling everything in sight,
The flakes like cotton *****,
Softening this morning light.

The wind is calm,
Bringing peace on this lake of ice,
Where down below lies the cold cold depths,
Down below,
Where my demons lie.

Such a juxtaposition,
Heaven and Hell,
Separated by the frozen water of my mind,
Serenity and Perdition,
Eternal reward and punishment,
So close and yet so distantly defined.

Clocking in,
Trudging on,
Grinding the nose down to the bone,
Clock out,
Et cetera,
Ad Nauseam,
Goes the routine of the last of the Blue-Collar poets.

Can't think of words,
Too dog-tired to think of rhyming schemes,
Too sore for clever entendres,
Too broke to focus on fixing verses, stanzas, and metrics.

Thinking of the too-long day,
And the too-long day to come,
Fighting for a long shot of a good-night's sleep,
For a glimmer of a decent day off,
Clawing for a decent day's pay.

Sweeping up the metal shavings,
Spattered with hot, hot grease,
Bones broken by falling boxes,
Maimed by unsafe machines.

Keep the Blue-Collar poet in mind,
As you operate your computers,
Sitting in your White-Collar dream,
For their fledging numbers dwindle,
That will never get the chance at your dream

Thousands upon thousands,
Twinkling lights thrown up upon the sky,
Little islands of white out in the distance,
Oceans of black separating them.

Each so far,
And yet so close,
Reach out and never touch them still,
The Galaxy arm spanning the gap,
Marking our tiny place on this big ol' map,
A tiny island all our own