One day you'll realise
That life is empty and hopeless
Whatever happens along the way to the grave
Doesn't matter - it is pointless.

You and I were born to die
So why live at all?
        Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
   To nothingness man shall return.

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

You appear  faceless
in my every dream
following in the footsteps
I've left somberly in the snow

I envision the warmth of your smile
yet, as I turn my head to see
as I turn the page in my heart to love again
the words are left unwritten
wind sweeping away your fleeting smile
the spectral figure of you
following in the footsteps
I've left somberly in the snow

The spectral figure of you
softly fades to gray
leaving me to this labyrinth
in which I wander alone
seeking for eternity
the answers to "what went wrong?".

What makes a poet ?
That was my thought
I mulled it over and
Came up with these oughts :

Late nights with
coffee , tea or beer
Perhaps harder stuff
Whiskey , smoke or gin clear

And the struggles and pain
as the birth is exclaimed
Blood , sweat and tears
Falling as hard as ice on rain

Confessionals made
As black on white page
Love , death , fears
Even extreme rage

One who struggles
with the a's and the's
Should one even use
The apostrophe

One who's words
Gel by the witching hour
Words full of promise  
Warnings so dour

But perhaps greatest of all
Before even the start
One must have
a true poet's heart