My pain is not a poem,
my poetry isn't poetic.
It's cryptic and a message,
cutting up and breaking
branches. Comprehensive;
my poems are suicidal, files of
medications and prescriptions
are seemingly all my mind
can write. Jumping to conclusions
and indenting my addictions,
inflicting this confliction, convictions
I don't mention. Those rhymes that
I have wrote; it was the drowning as I broke,
a broken draft of notes, that sing:
 "you'll never learn to float,"
Acid, or is it water?  
I'm hoping for the latter,
well I guess it never mattered,
years doubled and I'm sadder.
When does it get better?  
When do I get better?  
I guess it never will, and I'm
home but I'm not here,
I'm stuck, I'm stuck, I'm stuck,
and all my heart
can pump is tears-

such a thin line separates us
the living from the dead
the spirit that is free
from that which is bound
I have felt your gentle touch
and heard your whispered plea
I sense your presence
across the open seas of time
are you my love from a distant past
a kinder world
a quiet life?
I have come to believe that you wait for me
there
just across the line
just beyond the fray
where spirits dwell

Hanging like a scimitar
suspended in the sky,
the moon beside a gleaming star
is pleasing to the eye.
How desolate, this satellite
in airless ebon space
and yet, from here
‘tis beautiful
filagree & lace.