A bullet grazed my
Chest; cheating my heart to a
Longing for its pierce

The fraction of death
Fractures my spirit, tasting
The blood in my throat

The veil comforts me,
Keeps me warm, it wards off my
Impending future

Inky swirls of
My soul paint poetry, I'm
Rendered to forget

I've fainted from the lack of life;
I'm friends with the reaper,
Gouging the scar in my heart,
With nightmares padded within my cranium like the horrors of
Pandora's box.
I itched for a prick of dying;
A blade of grass from a
Never-ending feild of headstone beds,
and my latching plot that
Matched the imprints I left to
Achieve the first to plunge my skin,
To tweak my eyes,
from blue oceans to cardinal sunsets,
It comes twice for me,
Dusk bleeds light from red to black,
Like how my eyes see.
I took an oath; to patch this body,
A person you left in debt with death.
A servant, dressed in the uniform
Of an ungrateful angel;
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry--

Yet my halo drops,
My wings pivet from heaven,
Down, like their eyes did~
The last haiku in this poem is about scars; how innocence died in me, like how I turned good to evil, and the last line to it means the people looking at them. I don't know, all feedback is welcome
  2d Nightwolf
I walk the dry riverbed
the mud is firm and cracked
exposed tree roots cling to the banks
like gnarly fingers
Only the boulders appear happy
basking in the
scorching heat.
I see the old wooden bridge
where pooh sticks would've dropped
races won and lost
bobbing in the fastest current.
It's ironic that I feel at peace
with no water to pass under the
timber planks
All our words have meandered
into the distance
Even the trickle of hope has now
run dry
So now I tread on the starkness of reality
this barren riverbed
a clean slate
a blank canvas
and when the rain begins to fall
and flood these stones
I shall stand on the bridge
and look for your stick
always knowing
that you never did drop yours
  2d Nightwolf
Caress my spine
My leather bound skin
Un-tie the bow
And peek within
A foreword of thanks
To my mother
Long passed
And to all that is nature
Of questions I've asked
Begin the beginning
In bold 'Chapter One'
Herald the newborn
In cold winter sun
A life continues
Each chapter a year
turn slowly the vellum
some stained by tears
Twists and turns
with each decade worn
back stabbing bastards
On those pages now torn
A chapter of nothing
may confuse as you read
this is my present
a mind on its knees
No ending
No thank-you
No Index to show
Just hold tight the leather
and tie up the bow
When it rains in paradise
do the cherubs run for cover

When the rain comes down
does it disturb the lovers

Pouring down in buckets
angels wings as protection

Huge the drops surround
a bad weather man prediction

Are there lines in heaven
posted with a sign

Does Jesus dance in the rain
changing it to wine
Would't that be great! :D~
A powder blue epiphany of -
cumulus figurines , dancing conifers -
and copious sun-showers
Roadsides teeming with daffodil ,
dogwood and wildflower
Burnt orange dusk , southbound -
waterbirds , violet vallies and -
silvered hillsides
Noble oaks brimmed with -
vociferous crows , jays and -
Wind driven brown grass disappearing -
into the western horizon
Village bells
Distant afternoon fires
Roosters calling for the day to close
The clang of Angus and Brahma coming home
Stars mingling with earthen shadow ...
Copyright March 19 , 2018 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
If you are hoping for a poem, I would suggest skipping passed this. This is only intended to share an idea in the hope that it might help others.

We have all been here before -sitting at our desk staring at a blank page or computer screen, trying desperately to organize our thoughts and maybe write something; however, the ideas simply aren't flowing. Every writers worst nightmare - the inability to write! Well, I have a few thoughts that just might help someone in need of a cure (we can only hope, anyway).

One thing Iv'e noticed is that writers block is often stress related. Of course that isn't exactly "breaking news"; that's something that all of us already know (or at least, should know). The question is: how do we break through the stress, and bring our creativity to life again? Here is what I like to do.

I'll take the train to Santa Monica -notebook in my bag of course, and walk along the beach (cliché I know, but stay with me). During this time I clear my mind of all thoughts, especially writing.

I think this is an important part of this exercise. Don't even think about writing; put it as far out of your mind as possible. Simply enjoy what's happening around you; the sand, the waves, the gulls flying etc. I find that when I am able to do this, ideas sometimes just pop into my head.

Maybe you don't live near a beach... that's ok. Maybe you could go to the park, a forest trail or a rooftop overlooking the city skyline; anywhere you can walk or relax in solitude, and enjoy the sights and sounds around you, and again, keep writing out of your mind; don't think about it at all.

The point in this is to release the stress that is keeping your creativity captive, and help thoughts flow more organically. And maybe what comes to you in these moments isn't a masterpiece; that's ok. The point is to be able to write something. If it does happen to be a masterpiece, that's fantastic as long as we all get to read it (winky face) lol.

This often works quite well for me, tho sometimes it doesn't; and if it doesn't, at the very least, you can say you enjoyed your day.
I'm not sure why I was compelled to share this, but i was. Hopefully someone finds it useful.
I met a genius on the train
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
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