you are my ripe and tender peach
yet I strain for just one touch
you're too far away for my reach
exhausted I sit down and cry
distance proves to be too much
wow, I wish that I could fly

I take a breath and give a sigh
a mind filled with mists so deep
in a branch you are way up high
wet from my tears I drift asleep

so tightly held in your leaves
I wake with eyes opened wide
you sway under dawns soft light
my excitement I just can't hide
tender peach, my wondrous sight

don't get too drunk
that you lose reality
or blinded by the lies
told under your nose

don't get too drunk
breaking your own heart
digging a hole in your soul
for the promised illusion

don't get too drunk
that you change so much
you're unable to find yourself
ready to turn your life in

don't get too drunk
clinging to the addiction
of poisoned temptation
the alcohol of false love

the traquilled waters flowed
awaking her inner child
light engulfs the darkness
enclosing her past behind

enchanting beauty shines
hidden under nature's blanket
something very special
calling her soul of pure bliss

deep and beyond the underworld
she has finally arrived safely
just where she was meant to be
home within the seams of the sea

Can the ocean really get flooded?.
when the ocean in my brain gets flooded ......

my thoughts are tangled up
in the tornado twisting and turning
in my head surrounding my brain that fight
through the tossing thoughts, emotions and
feelings that my lips may have trouble speaking
my pen is the oar I use to pull my drowning soul
out from the troubles waters

The ship wreck of words sail through
the rough thinking waters running fast
causing a whirlpool headache as they
fight pushing and clawing at my brain walls
yet surviving thoughts that were able to brake
free from the storm of depression they smudge
a trail through the dripping wet ink falling from
my oar of a writing pen dragging behind the
clustering drift wood of lost words smearing
through the lines of the solid land of paper

my brain calms down a bit to inspect the
rest stop of provided free range of open
writing space clearing the way for all the
injured broken pieces of memories and
lost thoughts that were still floating behind
the mind is trying to stay focus by thinking,
searching for any surviving notions or ideas
that hangs there on the tip of my tongue

tossing out the remembering lifesavers to
pull in other surfacing thoughts that wants
and need to be revived from the fallen debris
clustered crews of gathered thoughts form as
my pen holds the ink of hope and inspiration
dragging my down confused depressed soul
to safety by writing my trapped untold story

ink its flowing through the valleys of paper
marking detailing the saved unspoken words
freed from the clutches of depressions prison
my brain can now release its story through my
scrawling pen that I hold in my writing hand

There are always traps of frustration, confusion and
depression; which is the worse pitfall of them all
the war from the thinking process is never over
preparing for their battle I take the action to grab
the already loaded weapon for writing; the "INK PEN"

there are as many definitions
of poetry as there are poets
as a writer I feel poetry is
a form of art; the antidote for
depression an illness that can
take a away all hope from a
determined soul with a passion
for living life but not enough
strength to climb from the deep
pit of darkness that shadows the heart

I know from experience that
poetry is a powerful antidote
yet it may not cure depression
but will help keep it under control
my mind I know is an ocean flooded
with feelings, emotions and thoughts
when its too hard to say what I feel I
grab my pen and poetry become the paint
of my unspoken thoughts

poetry is my lasso of words that has
pulled barbwire of confused thoughts
from the crevices of my thinking mind
bridging from the rocky cliffs of frustration
to the solid valley covered lands of peace

hidden in the hovering clouds of depression
is a locked door that blocks the exit of
a crisp and clear wonderful world holding
the true beauty of imagination hostage yet
to free the darkened soul use the antidote for
it is the powerful key unlocking creativity
as a writer I call this; the key of "POETRY"

torn by the blade of lies
the core of the hurting soul
hanging from the thread of love
a trapped heart no longer whole

a safety pin held her heart in place
no longer was it picture perfect
it has been split down the middle
in between somewhere somehow torn
the lingering pain and hurt is there
pulling and tugging at the pieces
shattered not stitched nor tailored
yet a safety pin small and worn out
soon to lose the grasp of its strength
with every breath it might come apart
an yet continuing to beat is her heart