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.

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.

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.

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

I hear the guitar play,
Its steel strings resinate a tune that is unfamiliar to me.
its at that point I notice you dancing in the corner of the room.
Moving like water, so beautiful.
If you were a colour you'd be lilac, or perhaps lavender, if there is a difference, I do not know.

If I were a courageous man, I would waltz over, timing it to the delicate music and make my entrance into your life, however I am not a courageous man.
Instead I will stay here and sip my bitter drink, thinking about how our life could have been together.
It would have been great.

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.

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.