The sideline view
Of a poet's life.
Topics free falling
In ranks of predictable verse.
Lacking vitality,
Inspirations disperse.

My thoughts wander.
Vibrating to the hum of
Flourescent lights above,
As the cursor blinks
In hypnotic rhythm.
Drawing me into
The pale blank screen
And beyond.

Falling once again
Into daydreams
Of her golden hair glowing
In Autumns waning light.
Hands merged in a gentle grip
Warming the evening chill
With a soft peck of our lips.

Longing in stillness,
Attending in silence,
The cursor, again, must wait
The many pensive stages
In a poet's futile task of
Placing verses on pages.

It's funny how
You can touch my hand
And I can no longer focus
You're presence is blinding
I see only you
I can only think of the fact
Your hands are strong
But they make me weak
You're cupping the inside of my thigh
This party needs to end
So I can finally get you alone
Everyone seems gone from the room
But I can still hear the crowds roaring
I see only you
My pulse is screaming to be in sync with yours
darling, the day you looked at me
was the day I quit looking at anyone else