The words burned into memory
their weight I carry still
your happiness turned to anguish
your shimmer seemed to fade
the person that once stood there
saying "only you control your fate"
no longer stood before me
I knew not, who you were
instead you were a dark man
with lifeless heavy eyes
saying "I used to get high on life,
now I just get high"

I don't know what's so **** poetic
About drinking black coffee
And being depressed
What's so 'sad yet beautiful'
About crying in the rain
Because nothing about the hurt
Is beautiful
It's ******* pain
In your chest.
It's a sick stomach
And it's not eating at all
Or eating too much.

Nothing, nothing
Is poetic about it.
It's not beautiful.

It's ugly.
And it's there.
And it won't ******* leave,
No matter what you
Write about it.

are longer now, i feel younger now,

i am older.    we do so many things.

we are no longer afraid.

make the best of summer days,

winter follows.

he remarked that it was

good enough for the

chelsea flower show.

sbm.

I ponder,
if he is looking down on me.
Wondering if he made the right choice.
This precious talent -- going to waste,
out of fear; it may never see the light?

I wonder,
What we he do the next same;
about this talent of mine --
let me waste it a second time,
or pass it on to a child of mine?

Call me "old school", if you wish, but I would much prefer to hear, "You're Welcome", than "No Problem!", when I give a simple "Thank You!" What has happened to "manners?"

Richard Riddle-May 27, 2015