Often people ask me
What it is I do
Poet of the times
Purveyor of the truth

Peeling back the onion skin
Carving at the rhyme
Pouring drinks of imagery
Squeezing out the line

Taking out the sickle
Knocking down the weeds
Till I uncover the beauty of
Hidden treasures underneath

Often people ask me
What it is I see
In the ink of illusion
Known as poetry

I say the line of work I'm in
Suits this poet fine
Where so often I catch myself
Working overtime

It's definitely not my first
and I doubt it's my last
but I think it's brighter
than my lives in the past.

At least I'm aware
that I have issues to work out.  Next time I'll accelerate the process no doubt.

I'm here for a moment,
a stitch in time
to nourish my soul;
enough to last the ride.  

And when I've reached
the other side
I won't look back...
Just wave goodbye.

Pump them full
of lead in protest...
that's sure to
knock em dead.
Use all your ammunition,
leave em ****** read.

Be the Gatling that
mows em down,
the bullet lodged
inside their head,

Be black powder
burning imagery on
their minds unkind extinguishing the misery
that makes them lost
and blind