Everything hurts today,
I try not to move much
but the knots in my stomach,
make it hard to hold still

When you touched me
something within me woke up
and for the first time,
in a long time,
I was really living

But now it's gone,
and the death of my heart
is too big a burden to bare

my soul, a bloodied war zone
my body, a shaky home built for two
won't bother you anymore

I'll let you go--but not today,
tomorrow.

This is how I’ll end;
not with a bang or a bonfire,
I’ve saved an apple for the pale rider’s horse,
and will smile when he bends down from the saddle
to carry me away.

I read that he lost a suitcase full of manuscripts on a
train and that they never were recovered.
I can't match the agony of this
but the other night I wrote a 3-page poem
upon this computer
and through my lack of diligence and
practice
and by playing around with commands
on the menu
I somehow managed to erase the poem
forever.
believe me, such a thing is difficult to do
even for a novice
but I somehow managed to do
it.

now I don't think this 3-pager was immor-
tal
but there were some crazy wild lines,
now gone forever.
it bothers more than a touch, it's some-
thing like knocking over a good bottle of
wine.

and writing about it hardly makes a good
poem.
still, I thought somehow you'd like to
know?

if not, at least you've read this far
and there could be better work
down the line.

let's hope so, for your sake
and
mine.

if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
otherwise, don’t even start.

if you’re going to try, go all the
way. this could mean losing girlfriends,
wives, relatives, jobs and
maybe your mind.

go all the way.
it could mean not eating for 3 or
4 days.
it could mean freezing on a
park bench.
it could mean jail,
it could mean derision,
mockery,
isolation.
isolation is the gift,
all the others are a test of your
endurance, of
how much you really want to
do it.
and you’ll do it
despite rejection and the
worst odds
and it will be better than
anything else
you can imagine.

if you’re going to try,
go all the way.
there is no other feeling like
that.
you will be alone with the
gods
and the nights will flame with
fire.

do it, do it, do it.
do it.

all the way
all the way.
you will ride life straight to
perfect laughter,
it’s the only good fight
there is.

Sometimes I'm not home
But I remain sat, snug between it's walls.
Sometimes I'm home,
Existing only as a body,
A spent bullet shell...
Empty, warped and scratched gold.
All of the time I'm at home,
Physically.
Yet, the wind traces it's fingers through my hair
Sending;
Shivers down my spine,
Sending;
My gaze to stars...
Peeking between cracks in the roof,
Sending;
My heart to a parallel beat...
And I am not there.