This muse of mine
Remains silent and invisible
And is no less intense for that
I still write to her
Tell her of my dreams and my pain
And she is part of both of these

This muse of mine
May be no more than a ghost
But she is still my only truth
The one that owns me
For all my ****** and damaged past
For all my pointless future

This muse of mine
May be unreal or gone
Yet still I hold on
And still there'll be no other
Because within my muse
Hopelessness and hope
Have me enthralled

                              By Phil Roberts

I have this neighbor.
Her name is Michelle.
All I want is for her
To come over some night &
Lick Cool Whip off my *****.
Is that so bad?
Is that so wrong?

Young: dreaming
of impossible possibilities
Unrestrained, untethered from reality
Unaware of the ticking, of the passing
of the seconds, of the hours,
of the years to the end
of eternity.

Climbing
Climbing and
Clinging
to the hope that one can dream forever
and as the feet are swinging
the child, fearless of pain, fearless of the fall, is ever
naive, and never expecting
that one day the dream may end.

For what was once a child is a child no longer

Mature: daydreaming
of the past, yet troubled of the future
Unfeatherd, grounded in reality
All too aware of the arching clock hands
and the hours that turn into seconds
and the days that pass into years
begin to fade into
oblivion.


Falling
Falling and
Failing
to realize that the feet now rest upon the ground
and the child that was once fearless, is fearing
the depths of a future not yet found
forever doubtful yet hoping
To continue to dream at day’s end.

What was gained was equally lost
And with this knowledge in hand
The child finally stands
Holding on to the dreams of tomorrow
Grasping the fantasies of yesterday

Indeed, what once was can never be again
To march forward never to return
What awaits are only questions, what remains are only “ifs”
But what stands tall is neither a realist nor a dreamer

What stands is a child no longer

To my friends
who can write
fresh-smelling
bouquets of words
with splendid color,
I offer my envy.
Mine are the blunt, stunted words,
rooted in the cracks
in pavement,
or forcing their way
to light around
overbearing rocks.
Some useful
in their own way,
edible or flavorful,
some with a
pedestrian beauty,
but few that one
would bring home in a bunch
with a box of candy.
More appropriate
in a grimy, young fist
crumpled in love,
destined to be vased
in a water glass
by a doting mother,
or shredded petal by petal
for the sake of soothsaying...
he loves me, he loves me not.

She’s more fun when she is drunk
At least…until she’s not
Because she’s puking in the toilet
And regretting her last shot

She’s more confident when she’s drunk
Gorgeous and ready to score
Until she looks in a mirror
And feels even uglier than before

She likes herself more when she is drunk
Until that feeling goes away
When she is so far beyond gone
That her self-hatred comes out to play

She’s happier when she’s drunk
All her issues leave her brain
But they all come crashing back at once
And cause her so much pain

She likes the world more when drunk
It’s filled with so much good
Until one little thing sets her off
And she hates it all more than she should

She likes life more when she’s drunk
Her mind for once feels still
Terrified of losing that feeling
She soon wants to end things with a pill

But she can stop any time she wants
Or so she’d have you believe
Because alcohol makes her seem so happy
That is, until all her friends leave