The sideline view
Of a poet's life.
Topics free falling
In ranks of predictable verse.
Lacking vitality,
Inspirations disperse.

My thoughts wander.
Vibrating to the hum of
Flourescent lights above,
As the cursor blinks
In hypnotic rhythm.
Drawing me into
The pale blank screen
And beyond.

Falling once again
Into daydreams
Of her golden hair glowing
In Autumns waning light.
Hands merged in a gentle grip
Warming the evening chill
With a soft peck of our lips.

Longing in stillness,
Attending in silence,
The cursor, again, must wait
The many pensive stages
In a poet's futile task of
Placing verses on pages.

Another Sunday.
Opening the empty space.
What shall it be
On the last day of everything?

Start in the upright,
Twirl to the melody,
Wearing down old soles
To the heels of memory.

Nausea of routine,
Waning appeals unvoiced.
Visions thickening,
Melodies reduced to noise.

   An empty space to fill.
   What shall it be?
   Towards the last day of everything,
   Withering out of mortal shackles
   In emptiness,...freed

~~~

You were a 'Star' even back then.
The light from your eyes brightened
my days and all we had was time.

Too young, dumb and blind, I was,
to know for certain.
But deep down, a part of me could
tell that you would one day rise to
decorate the sky.

Now, the World orbits around 'you'.  
As well it should.
I still miss the times when
we were young
and you were mine.
Strumming your tunes
and making 'em rhyme.
No back up,
no stadiums,
just that sweet voice
humming new lines
into the Summer night.

Jealousy's wicked symphony
fills my mind as your blue eyes
gaze at me from the covers at
the checkout line.
Such is the fate of young lovers
who started as friends, until one
rises high and the other descends.

Oh, well.

You've earned the World's love
just as you won mine so long ago.
I hope you miss me too,  even
though I will always miss you
just a little more.

~~~

Let me not to the intuit of true poetry
Cast aspersions. Art is not art
When it conceit finds,
Or bends with public senses
To be misused:

Oh, no! Tis an unfinished tome,
Of written prose fixed on ink and stone,
A beacon for generations to behold
Spoken for itself
And never owned.

Verse and prose yield not
To times whims,
Though ink stained digits
Decay within
Her sickled blade
Reduceth all to dust.

Our compulsion alters not
With her frigid certainty
But endures it out, even
To the edge of eternity.

   If this timeless effort 'folly,'
   And upon me proved,
   I have never lived
   Nor no one ever
   Truly mused.

~~~

You're a shovel.
Digging a deep hole in my chest.

I can feel my every breath
whirling around with no way out.

Make it stop.