In all honesty
I have no idea
What to write about

Red ball (for better quality you should should read it aloud)


And if I said a ball is red,
and all I said was that,

and if you thought,
a ball is round, and on its surface
texture found, and on your finger
round and round it spins,
then off the glass rebounds
to take another shot;

and if you thought,
a ball is red, the colour blazing in my head
of ripe cranberries in a bog, or colour
of a short-hair dog that's trained
to hunt a hog,

I could not say
you understood, for in my mind
the ball was wood, and sitting on a metal shelf,
a toy made by Santa's elf–
its red the plastic kind.

One-hundred and seventy-one thousand,
four-hundred and seventy-six,
the words within our bag of tricks
to try and say what we must say,
and still not be cliché.

It's why I write to please myself,
and maybe with a metaphor,
or simile, hyperbole, or maybe
if personified, it touches deep inside
and amplifies, when it is read,
a human watershed.

There resides a monster within my heart
One with daggers instead of teeth
Swords, as nails, without a sheath.
This monster has onyx eyes
Paper skin as white as snow
As cold as ice.
This monster is my subdued rage
My muted anger
What makes me age.
It torments my soul in all sorts of ways
From lonely nights to freezing days.
It's cut off my tongue so I won't scream
For God's sake it won't even let me dream!
Every night it visits my slumbering corpse
It taunts me, it haunts me,
It shakes me, it wakes me
I can not scream, I can not breath.
All of my nights are slumberless
These tormenting notions are numberless.

Dear monster, please go
Leave me alone and take my woe
I can not bear your presence
Your sight, your sence, your smell
Haunts me.
It feels like the devil himself taunts me.
I do not know what else to say,
How else to scream
Or cry for help
I just hope that one day
You'll get bored and go away,
Go! give me some ecstasy,
All I need is a slight feeling of ataraxy.

I’m drenched
in the flood
which has yet to come

I’m *******
in the prison
which has yet to exist



Not having played
the game of chess
I’m already the checkmate



Not having tasted
a single cup of your wine
I’m already drunk



Not having entered
the battlefield

I’m already wounded and slain



I no longer
know the difference
between image and reality



Like the shadow
I am

And

I am not

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Have you really lived,
If you haven't slept under the
Ever so immense sky
Gazing at the small shivering stars
And the mighty moon in her solitude?

Have you really lived
If you haven't held the hands,
The soft, warm hands, of your lover
On a cold, crisp and bitter day?

Have you really lived
if you haven't felt and appreciated
The small things in life?

at 4 in the
morning the sun
is never up
but i usually am

i worry
about things
that are out of
my control
even more about
things that are

get up early
when i work
and earlier
when i don’t
the older i get the
more i learn
sometimes you
need to cry it out

alone
at night
into your pillow
the blankets
wrapped all
around you

sometimes you
need to cry
and cry
and cry

until the morning
sun falls across
the tears dried
under your lashes

and the lump
in your throat has
dissolved so you can
breathe with ease

you need to get up
let hot water
wash it away
let the steam rising
from your mug soften
any sorrow left around
your morning eyes
take a deep breath
don’t mention it
to anyone

and
just
keep
going

i will
just
keep
going