The old forgotten unwound clock
                                                         is still at least right,
                                                          ­                                twice in one day.

I am a spirit locked up inside a human skin,
Scaling each wall
And roaming each corridor
To find my way out.

Poet, be not afraid.
There are far worse things than
Bad poetry.

Keep writing; like a child keeps
Drawing with the purest of
Disregards to likeness.

The more stones you turn, the more
Gems you produce.

The more ink you rain,
The more gracious your written
Children grow.

All flexing builds muscle.

Rough bricks form castles.

Even Dalì carved canvases to shreds
And started anew
Not caring too much.
Not caring

Too much
To keep painting.

Woman. Man's mystery.
Soft as feather falling through mist,
In need of something that isn't.
I keep forgetting
That I'm rarely the reason for
Whether you rain or shine.

I am the rock you hide under
While the deluge pounds.
I am the rock you rest upon when
Soaking up the sun.
I am the rock you recognize
As last milestone before home.

Deep inside the eye of your storm
You blame me as little
For anything
As you'd blame any other rock
For something.
I'm just there.
Whatever hits you
Hits me.