It is amazing, the life of a wave.
It takes forever to build up
and then once it finds its way to the beach,
is alive for only a couple seconds.
As beautiful as this sounds,
the act of the surfer is even more.
The wave exists momentarily
but while it does,
the surfer carves smooth silky lines into it
creating a form of art seen only by few.
After that, that single wave is gone forever;
It is not coming back.
The surfer will never surf that same wave again.
The life of the wave now only exists in memory.

Personally, I find nothing more beautiful than that.

B.K.

i feel myself slipping in and out of reality
reminiscing on the memories that once brought me so much joy

now causing me the most pain

i want to punch a hole in my wall

They said,
"The most beautiful art is
looking into someone's eyes
when they talk about the
things they love."
And I said,
"Or looking at someone you love.
Or maybe, just maybe,
by looking at the mirror
is the most beautiful art
anyone should appreciate."

Stars laid out before me on this ever haunting eve,
seem to laugh in all their glory, while I can only grieve.
For myself and for others, and all with our disease,
our silence is solace for the ones we'll soon bereave.

I've laid my last brick and the wall's standing proudly,
a monument to the filth which always surrounds me.
It is me.

And I'm feeling kind of good again,
knowing the bricks keep all safe from my sin,
that with time no one will remain,
bringing a day with the ending of pain.

Sometimes I struggle to peak over my wall,
jumping and screaming to no one at all,
wondering if anyone is out there still waiting,
and knowing they aren't is sometimes frustrating.

Of course there is no one left anymore,
and saddened as I am, that's what walls are for.
I did this with purpose and now I can bleed,
with no one to be hurt by my dying deed.

Break my bones;
cut my throat.
Pull me open,
learn the ropes.

Breath me in;
taste the fear.
Shank my skin;
stand and cheer.

Kick my head;
let me bleed.
Unbolt my veins;
enjoy the read.

Gouge my eyes;
punch my face.
Wrap me up
in your embrace.

Neither Nightingale or Crow
Neither Whippoorwill or Sparrow
Perched on phone lines, never trees
Still those birds have the right to sing.

Target of bad boys’ B B Guns
Splashed with water canons
They fly til they can fly no more
And tremble in the shadows.

Their feathers have a bit of shine
When sunbeams fall just right
But all too often that just makes
Them that much easier to find

And targets them for hatred rocks
Thrown by those who only
Recognize a Woodpecker
And a Robin Red Breast.

Too bad their music goes unheard
Most often it is beautiful
If they could sing with the other birds
The music would become symphonic.
                 ljm