A pampered myth
paves the road
to servitude.

The path of least resistance
is the quickest route
to the
bottom.

Patience is a curse for those who've run out of time.

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.

~~~

         On
  the
      Eighth
day,
    Amnesia
was
      created.
Because
         dreams
  can
       never
   die.


~~~

"Men are accessories and not necessities,"
she proudly remarked with a
delicious smug.

"Well then,"  I replied.

"You should strap me on
until you've worn me out!"*

;-)

~~~

We once walked these streets together
at a time when 'forever' was something real.
Our kisses were gentle pecks, here and there.
Missing our aim, on occassion,
but sweet with a purity I long for still.

We didn't lie about our dreams together.
We just bent our desires to fit our wishes.
Our ignorance caught up to us soon enough.
I took the high road while you descended
down an easier path.

I recall that first morning so long ago.
Awaking to a vacancy of empty fitted sheets
and tears that replaced the echo of our routine.
The sounds of our love absorbed by
the plaster walls, still jingle at times.

The pain is gone,
and tender memories remain.
The high road I treaded upon gives
clear views of our long lost past.
But, only the lonliest of broken hearts
can travel that path.

The streets are quiet now.
And I remain,
still in love
and never the same.

~~~

The rouge from your supple lips
decorate my face still.

It's warmth radiates from
my cheek as ignited senses
beg for more.

The gentle red contours tingle
through my flesh as it etches
it's imprint onto my very soul.

You've conquered me with one gentle blow.
My only purpose for continued breath,
is to be kissed by you once more.

~~~

I descended slowly so long ago.
The memory of how
and why it began floated
away with the flotsom on
the warm surface currents.

On the frigid sea floor of my mind
crushed beneath the pressure
of liquid self loathing.
A kingdom of cold piercing
darkness was my domain
and there I stayed.

"Please, come back."
Her words echoed in the depth.
And it began.

A slow ascension passed the
darkened depth through murky grey.
The grasping demons that preyed
on my spirit lost their hold as I rose
beyond their reach.

Faster I climbed.
My soul expanded with every passing meter.
Pushing away all that held me down
and breached the warm wavy surface
where it all began.

Golden rays and azure blue skies
fill my sight as I float with the current.
Miles from shore with hope as my
only compass.

The journey to my redemption now begins
with you as my guide.

~~~


KCsPoetryContest  depression  recovery

Summer's warm currents retreat
the advancing brisk amber sunsets.

Submerging the world under
the reign of enduring starry nights.

The maples blush as Autumn whispers
the gentle lullaby of Winter's sweet breath.

Erasing Summer's memory with a crimson brush
preparing the golden landscape's long frigid rest.

~~~

Your perfection is an illusion.
My faults are real.

'Trust' is the stitching
that holds my fragile
parts together.

Whispers of what we share,
like confetti in a breeze,
cannot be recovered
once carelessly set free.

Don't release me to the wind,
I beg you.

~~~

haunting grey outside,
forced to reminisce.
some believe we should just be.
no mind,
no chemistry,
friends in need.
I was born complete
but now fractured and
blown with Autumn's leaves.
running in place
no direction,
just haste,
faking my way.
the membrane
between me and the pain
is thinning away.


~~~

Classics in Art, Music, Literature
live beyond temporal limits.
Touching chords when seen and heard,
on canvass, in melodies, with written words.

They can be young and fresh,
or ancient and frayed.
With messages and stories
ringing true through every Age.

They transcend places
and march boldly through time.
Still relevant,
Still beautiful,
Eternally sublime.

~~~

I'm sometimes asked with feigned surprise,
"You write poetry?"
"How Divine!
Give us a sample of your
favorite rhyme!"

But I know what they're thinking.
I see it in their eyes,
"What a waste of time."
"What a joke."
"Better hide the silver,
cuz these types are all broke."

Poetry doesn't pay the bills.
That part is so true.
But, don't deride my compulsion,
or my next hundred verses
will be about "you!"


~~~

something was missing.
a vacancy of purpose
lay within my soul.
until I caught your glance
and for a brief moment,
I suddenly felt whole.

I didn't believe it, at first.
my jaded mind fought the idea.
but the emptiness began to fill.
this wasn't a lustful impulse
something had begun,
and it was real.

the proof was in
your words,
your smile,
your loving touch.
your humor,
your laugh,
I could not get enough.

our lives began that august night
under a star filled sky and pale moon.
I am a 'man' today made better, forever
and it's all my darling,
my Love,
because of you.

~~~

You 'are' beautiful!

Let no one convince you
otherwise.

Not even you.

~~~

(inspired by cute crazy's "unfair")*

I
  loved
    you
      for
        who
          you­
            are...

and
  you
    threw
      me
        away
  ­        for
            who
                
                  *I­  wasn't