wherever I go. They're high
as a mountain covered in
snow. They're deep as a valley
and swim around my head. They're

under my covers and rotate my
bed. They squeeze me tight like
a Charley horse, pushing me back
with all their g-force. I bump into them

stone cold sober, raking them up
like leaves in October. They're thick as
a French accent. And hasn't been one
I can circumvent!

Poetry has a way of hiding
Itself in a dried up riverbed.
Inspiration of nothingness.
Words at tongue’s tip,
Can’t quite grasp…
And then all of a sudden,
Words flow like the mighty Amazon
During the wettest season,
Tumbling over each other
In their rush to be writ upon the page.
Feast or famine,
All or nothing.

Who knows how many chambers
   there are in the human heart ?
   each with its proclivities and nuances
   playing their individual part.

   Is there the congruence
   or the conflicting rub?
   The person has no say
   never has visited that mysterious hub-

   feelings and reason
  are poles apart
  how they struggle
  to be heard- how torn is the heart!

There’s a mind that relentlessly rioted
And honestly couldn’t be quieted
Distraught by illusion  
It hungered for fusion
Like Plato’s original dyad did