i cut my hair off once
i used to feel the ends tickle my back
but then i ran my fingers through my hair and
reached my shoulders.
i held my head higher and stood taller.
see
there's a saying that when you cut your hair short
you get a new beginning.
once those frayed ends are let loose,
a new life opens its doors for the new you.
but i didn't see a new door so
i cut it again and
now its too short for my liking.
and i hold the door shut.
i guess i have to grow it out again before
i try anything else with it.

Had poet's breakfast
this morning; a tasty bowl
of Synonym Life.

Why is *** called making love
when there are so many other acts,
far less physical, far less cheap, than that?

The world reveals pristine, porcelain skin
over untouched and idle thoughts.
Undresses limbs over addressing morals,
Grips headboards over words,
Scrambles bedsheets over aspirations.

But fine, go ahead, call it love,
and wonder why young generations
grasp blindly at the concept
and consider themselves fools,
falling down again.

i want to hold you the way
leaves hold drops of dew in the morning light.
behold,
the new day shines but
not as brightly as you, my dear

Fleeting November clouds-
stained with red wine,
fill the sky like one-hundred
crystal glasses,
finally spilling onto the white cloth-
of the Earth's winter table.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the George Washingtons
of my generation.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.

For the Thomas Jeffersons
and the
Benjamin Franklins who
aren't afraid to dream of
words that haven't been
created
and things that have
yet to be
designed.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.

For the
Revolutionaries who
have yet to be
born.
For the Paul Reveres
who have yet
to take their midnight
rides
one if by land,
two if by sea.
one if by land,
two if by sea.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.

For the
modern day
Lewis and Clarks who
explored a land beyond
exploration's eye.
For the Sacagawea guides that
guide from a shining sea
to a sea of gold.
For the immigrants who
traversed waters of salty tears
made solely of their own fears.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.

For the slaves held captive
not by their captors,
but by their own fears,
hopes,
desires
and dreams.
Afraid to pursue a land
just slightly beyond their own
R          e          a          c          h.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the conductors of the railroad
that was unseen.
The one that ran not on
coal and steam,
but the one that
ran on
Dreams.

I wanta write a poem for the ages,
for the Teddy Roosevelt
conservationists
and the Stravinsky
concert pianists
and the Maya Angelou
performers,
and the,
people.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the soldiers battling
for a cause they didn't
even start.
For the lives that gave their
lives for a cause,
because they believed in
The cause.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the Daddy who's still
looking for work,
For the Mommy who has
given up
Hope.
For the widow and
her orphan,
For the soup kitchens
that can't
stay open long enough.
For the failing
Economy.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the mustached
man in Germany
rising to a power
ever Grand.
For the nations willing to
ignore it if they can.
For the day that everything
changed.
December 7th, 1941
will forever live
in infamy.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the unconquered Jews who
fought back.
For Anne Frank and her
family.

I wanta write a poem for the ages
For the modern day
Martin Luther King
Jr.'s.
For the ones
who
Aren't afraid to challenge a
System designed to
fight against them.
For the
modern day
Claudette Colvins.
The ones who
aren't afraid to sit down
to make a stand.

I wanta write poem for the ages
For the modern day
Buzz Aldrins
who are
altogether underrated
Just
because they came in
Second.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
A poem that speaks louder
than words
and goes beyond
generations.

So I wrote a poem for the ages.

Chances are
I’m going to lose it all
my passion for music
and love of writing
my friends
family
and all our memories
close relationships
lost at sea
slowly floating to the bottom
like specks of golden dust
only to be discovered
when it’s too late
and I’m gone