You knew I wouldn't hurt you.
You knew I would care.
You knew I was the one to go to.
But now when you need me the most, I'm not there.

Now you're left confused and alone.
You don't know where I might be.
You know I wouldn't reject your call on the phone.
I would never ignore you, because you know me.

It's been a full day.
And I still haven't returned.
Your now beginning to say
"Maybe her feelings for me have turned."

You don't know what caused me to flee.
I thought you were a nice kid.
You know I'll be back, because you know me.
At least, I thought you did.

Reaction
to core reactor,
Explosion,
here now
before and after.....

This writer’s block is heavy; it sits on my chest and becomes my test for the taking, pressing my emotions to the point of breaking. Ever taking, ever testing a man’s will to take quill in hand and fight the parchment in a battle of pen strokes, curves and lines. This stalemate enemy in my shattered time holds the battle line and controls the destitute thoughts, controls the ideas I brought to bear. Tear them free from the grasp of this, my enemy, and scatter them lightly across the pages, creating symphonies without a sound in an arrangement of profound rages. They are rambles, rants and raves and nothing more, with no winner, no loser, and no settled score. There’s nothing to be won. Yet here I sit, nervously undone with uncertain hands that shake, for what came so easy to me was so easy to break. So thoughts may move in circles, to occupy the wandering mind for mercy’s sake, to shake the tree and make fall the fruit thought to be lost, thought to be beyond cost, that which was free under the skies. Because the ability to sing of heroes, of villains, of love and of lies was never mine to have, it belonged instead to my soul. A thing once made whole, once broken, that when stirred is outspoken, and bleeds across the lonely paper dolls to wander freely in the halls of lost dreams. Covered in the dust of forgotten themes that seemed brilliant once, though never shared by the trepid heart that wouldn’t dare, for some things are better left unsaid. Unread words of dread that seem to repeat over and over, coming back from the dead to seek their exposure. And I am somewhere in the middle of it all, somewhere lost in my mind and I am enthralled, I can only watch this opera to its final verse, lay my hands across the keys and give control to this curse, like a once proud ship tied to the docks, this is what it is to have writer’s block….

I streched the spring.
Then put it back.

Closed the reciever
With a click and a clack.

I charged the handle.
Then let it go.

I counted my rounds.
Twenty nine in the mag.
One in the hole.

She felt the same.
Cold and steady.

I felt no shame.
Cold and ready.

The air felt heavy.

But something was new.
Some mechanical remedy.

My magazine was full.
And I could face my enemy.

with a 2 lb. trigger pull.

Ripped apart at the seams, the pain, the screams, heavy breathing and dreams, the raven on razor blade wings. And there you dance on golden strings, the marionette of my nightmare things and all things shown to be true. And there you are, right there where I left you, and there you are, right there where I loved you.

I Want My Poetry…**

To be far more than just a rhyme,
An idle way to pass the time,
As you take in my words like a drink,
I want my words to make you think,
To make you examine your very soul,
And help you reach that ultimate goal,
I want my words to inspire the masses,
To join together and unite the classes,
To inspire people to make a start,
To see the good in another’s heart.

To do what’s right, as you should,
And bring about the greater good.
I want the words that I write,
To fill others with delight,
To satisfy your every need,
To free the world of hate and greed,
To wipe the tears from your eyes,
There for you to silence your cries,
My words your comfort in time of pain,
To bring you sunshine instead of rain.

And if some day I can’t be by your side,
Let my words be your guide,
It is my gift I give to thee,
And as you read them, think of me,
And even though I can’t be there,
I’ll think of you and say a prayer,
And if my words should bring you peace,
And from your troubles provide release,
It’s what I want my poetry to do,
To be my gift, from me to you.

03-09-12.

I had a dream just the other night,
That people would no longer fight,
No more wars to be lost or won,
That everyone could live as one.

I had a dream just the other day,
Of streets where kids could safely play,
And treat each other with respect,
And never come to know neglect.

Where children grow in a loving home,
And would never face the world alone,
To live in comfort, and without need,
Regardless of their race or creed.

That the God we worship is all the same,
No matter what we call his name,
And honor each other’s right to choose,
Regardless of their different views.

And if my dream should ever come true,
It will be up to people like me and you,
And I dream the day should come at last,
Where hunger is a thing of the past.

For I dream one day the human race,
Will make this world a better place,
Where fighting and wars will someday cease,
And our children may know a world of peace.


11-25-11b.

I reached into the night and touched the sky as a star fell heavy into this untrusted land. I caught it in my hand and it hit me at the speed of fright. I outstretched my palm to see this cradled light, this heat, it was a heart and I knew its hesitant beat through my bones. it was my own. Though it had blue eyes through which true beauty shone.  Its red hair so fair and fine wasn't mine, it wasn't mine but it's song was the same, it had a name. By chance it did dance a delicate ballet into my soul. I knew instantly then that I was made whole and that scars could subside with the healing of wounds. This gift, this boon, was without end in this delicate friend. Who whispered softy as the doves and touched me with a love so clean that I knew I was walking in a waking dream.

I see you there,
In the dark by the phone,

And when I see you I feel safe....
I feel alone.

When I feel you
I feel my injured soul
And see scars that match my own.

Cut to the bone
Sitting with you
In the only chair in a burning home

Waiting for eyes that see
My heart isn't made from stone

And though damage has been done
It wasn't me,
I'm not that accident prone.

I walked barefoot across the nameless tiles, littered with remnants of the stained glass windows of my broken dreams. I walked for lifetimes, or so it seems, over the twisted kaleidoscope of my wishful thinking and failures. Embracing the pain in the hopes that such beautiful shards would leave beautiful wounds. The footprints left in blood were my history scrawled across the nightingale floor, like so many broken swords washed upon the shore, forgotten by the hands of slain warriors in their rusted armor and bones. Left alone with nowhere to go, when you were the home I came to know. Those stone walls that sheltered me from the cold protecting the ragged edges of my tattered soul, which long since crumbled to dust. Leaving me exposed to the graceful storm, the whipping wind and driving rain. This is my life, this beautiful history of pain.