Your third eye is closed,
Shut by the constant
Wave of conformity
thrashing around you.

~Driven to make decisions
that decided the fate of me~

~I've entered into twilight
Left alone with only debris~

~Believe me when I tell you
there is nothing - like being free~

~And if you ever hear it
That sound we've come to know,
there's nothing could prepare you-
-We've got nowhere left to go.~

Coffee daydreams,
Burnt beans-
Ripped seams,
and holy jeans.

Not Jesus jeans,
No-silly things
a state of being-
Made in my genes.

From Constantin-
Opal rings
to all the things
That leave me aching-

-My personality
      is split
           between
                what I believe in
                     and what I belong in.

                          A war of the worlds-
                               Neither of which
                                   are the best of either.

Along thine path
grow flowers; shapes
and sizes abound,
but nothing could
compare to all
the things you've
found

along the way-
Egregious liar
born-again friar
that woman briar
all to the ire
of your mother.

Thus I admire
this walked path
of contest and
clashing, both of
the asomatous and true;
incorporated incorporeal-
ism, what else could you
possibly do?

we fall, we run, we chase, we hide
make plans and make believes
we force our roots to ignore the cycles of decay
we fill our bodies with rush and dismay
we love and we are ready to die all
the symbolic deaths that ignore the traffic lights
just to just to just to just to
avoid the unbearable pain of being alive

“wordlessly watching, heartlessly helping “

an early morning insertion,
says writes a love poem of
necessity, no formal request,
but as I am quiet bound to
her chest rhyming rising, falling,
she, caught between eyes closed,
but ears open, in pretense of deep
sleeping,
leaves me treading words,
“wordlessly watching, heartlessly helping “
borrowed for reuse, as waves
that have been here moments ago,
but only now just splashing me
to a place of inspiration, I look
up at the jambalaya of verses,
and declare myself satisfied,
both in love and wish this:

a completed poem that satisfies a
noisy urging~surging to tell her I
love her without disturbing her
peaceful state of drowsy and
permitting me too
(thinking pause)
to
taste a piece
of peace, so
well completed

do pained people turn into poets
or would they be a poet without pain

Her fears rise-up like a great angry bird suddenly
Flapping black wings. Flitting here, then there.
Glimpses of what had been, what was, what might be.
But these are only the shadows of clouded eyes
Dulled with age and thickened in time.
Held within a brain dulled and thickened the same.
Shadows had darkened her life before,
Throughout her almost 90 years.  Now once more
They were back like an unwanted friend,
Yet these had never really been real
Only in that they now grip her life.

walking towards you in the mist
glimpsing peripherally
unsure of why
imagination does exist