First take an empty shell
And carve to your liking
The contours of muscles and veins
And the strong jaw
All threaded with fur,
Then stuff it with excelsior
And anoint it with sharp cologne,
Dress the body in the finest blues and grays,
Kiss the tired hands that work
So you don't have to--
And talk
Because silence is a valiant listener.

Sipping tea, alone, 2 am
Unbelieving
That I could have loved before knowing
Your cool hands
The emerald flash of your eyes
Your voice
Song

There are no transmissions any more
Just long rocking emotions
sitting on the front porch of life
The skin of our teeth leaves
a vacuous  hunger
for the virginity of thought
But the magic inferred
leaves nothing but a sunset's ray
of goodbye upon the plains
of yesterday's regrets

The blank page…

A writers greatest friend
Or greatest enemy.
When we're all faced with the possibility
That our last piece
Will be our, last, piece.

Sorrowed ink fills my pen
So I write once again
I'm not seeking fame
Just trying to drain the pain
No one need to read
I use my pen to bleed

I write about my past
It'll leave you aghast
When want and reality collide
I write about dreams that died
When I become numb
My brain becomes dumb
I write about how I've succumb
To a life lived in the rabbit hole
Where no happiness ever flowed
I write about agony
That drives you to your knees

Yes in my pen is the most sorrowed ink
Watch me as I sink
As I paint a picture of a person on the brink