In the maze of sleeplessness,
  My soul searches for rest.
    I find no sign of escape
    Locked in a dreamless haze
  Peace forgotten,
Only stress.

Always pleased to see you, when you enter the home. Aways pleased with your offer of a treat or bone. Enjoying your touch and the sound of your voice, never judging always loving.

Upon the deathbed of Old Man Winter
Autumn placed her golden crown,
and as his heart began to thaw
he helped Spring lace her morning gown.

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?

and then I asked you,
"What's your biggest fear?"

you gave me a quivering sigh,
looked at me straight in the eyes
and said,

"It's that eventually, you will see me
the way I see myself."

Send your vibe through my veins pulsing
feel your rhythm beat.

Kick the habit, skin convulsing
take me off my feet.

See the living far removed and so
we rot inside.

When there's nowhere left to go
and no one to confide.

Cast your magic down my track
and see our skies explode.

See the young man crawling back
and watch his eyes implode.

Send your chill into my bones
that writhe in memory.

When I'm sinking deep in your
euphoric harmony.

Fear the ghost that begs my view
and sets my soul ablaze.

When the spark ignites anew
as life is just a phase.

Feel you feast upon my flesh like
master over slave.

Take the habit, like my breath
and dig our lonely grave.