"A Robert Palmer please, and two ultras for my friends here." sais the over weight man in pink golf shorts.
Of course sir
"I bet she purrs like a kitten between the sheets. Haha!" whispers the man sitting next to the pink golf shorts
"Look at that ***!", laughs the grey haired checkered shirt
"I'll smack it when she brings our order, bro.",replies pink shorts
Here is your Robert Palmer sir.
And two ultras.
WHACK!
Squeeze
They laugh

Head dropped
Tears fall
Shame felt

Yellow Haired Servant Girl

I look at the sun
and it's rays
make me shiver
Still I remain numb
in the rain

The pen and the paper
My Lord and my maker
Disintegrate
before my eyes

Like a song
pleads for it's words
A poet must be heard
Before the light
within is lost

It comes with a cost
One must be lost
Still the lines must
go on and on

Some day might
there be peace
Let happiness
increase
Still the words they
must fall like the rain

Each letter feeds
my heart
Let the words
never stop
I will be here
on the page

storyteller
tell me a story
it needn't be true
just something
to drown out
the droning sound
life makes.

When sleep can't find me, I guess because I'm camofluoged and fit too well in the night
(After all, sleep does have its eyes closed)
I make the 25 minute drive down to "L" street.
I sit on my old bench in that ****** fake park with the lined up giant rocks and the one weeping cherry tree. City counsels gift to the street ******, rapists, thieves  and drug peddlers.
  I watch, I listen and sip my whisky. L street is the worse part of town here. There's an asylum on one side of the corner, a bank on the other. Red light number 3. People are always lined up in front of the asylum. I suppose for little blue pills.
  Further down the row of crumbling bricks, is a cafe that plays live music on Friday and Saturday nights and across from that is a pool hall that sells green hotdogs. On the other side of the pool hall, is an empty building with my tobacco lady painted on the side of it. And my "bitchs bench", as I call it, sits beside that.
My mother has always raised immortal hell about my going there. Day or night. "You'll get *****, hooked on the "L" pills or murdered. Dont come crying to me when it happens", she sais. But as much time as I've spent there, I've spoken with more than a few of those "undesirables" and they all have a story of such pain and heart break. Or they're just mentally ill.
They're daisies. That didn't grow upright in this field of life. They tripped.
  My "L" street,
is where the daisies tripp.