My thoughts are weary travelers
Waiting for the safe haven
Of the blank pages
Where ink rejuvenates them to life
As memoirs for other travelers

Pain slices through his heart
As he watches her
Once again
Beat herself with that
Whip of Intolerance
Each time he is Stunned
By the Violence
She directs at herself
His heart bleeds
As he wonders....
          as he wonders
If she will ever find
Acceptance and Tolerance
Of her self
That she so freely gives to others

Pins in a haystack
Needles in the cushion
A knack knick whack-a-patty
Push n tha' tooshin

Waggle wiggle bumpin thump
hungry hippos roast a ****
Candy apple, hide-n-seek
Count to ten, you best not peek

Wormy wiggle, rigga ma roll
rat-rug boat-tug sac-de-Cul
Almost done, have words with fun
Yup giddy yup giddy, "Run Forrest Run!!!"

let me be alone

when i show you my work, you tell me i have talent
but here is the truth - loneliness is the key to cultivation
anyone else in the room is a hawk in wait
every sound i hear is a step closer
i can measure in seconds how long until they look
there is something weak in being a poet
and something that should be hidden
the concept of poetry is something too unusual and too emotional and too weak



2. let me hide myself

you tell me i have talent, but i tell myself i have this insecurity:
im worried of writing too beautifully, im worried of being too personal or too unpersonal, im worried,
the thing i desire most is a disconnect between the words on the screen-

-and my keystroke fingers typing them
a wire sheared in half, red and blue cords spitting out of their black cage, neutrons and protons that will never reach a destination
it will be better if i'm reading another's work and not my own



3. let me have other dreams

i have this insecurity, but i also have big dreams
i dreamt of starting government rebellions with pens and ink
i dreamt of fantasy worlds with their own big bang: my first word
i dreamt of heroes battling with swords while i battle for the best phrases

but these are only things i dream about
and poetry books are not full-length novels or epics
i will never have inspiration for fifty thousand words or reach into double-digit chapters
but i wish i could



4. let me have this dream

i have big dreams
and this is why i will show you my work

Somewhere the shadows watch
Through the unseen darkness
At all the lost souls
That attempt to feel their way

As eyes unseen, lurk eager for the hunt
The prey seldom understands the Devil's grasp
The demonic hands grasp the weeping
Squeezing their flesh, only to gloat at pain

Sanity lost in such a devilish bliss
Lost are the remains of my former self, a rebirth into madness
This baptism of blood, now I understand what it is to live
But within a Phoenix tries to break free, scattering the burning ashes

Then no matter the darkness, let the hellish demons hide from a new found regeneration
As chaos rules my thoughts,  the storm on the horizon burns my desires
No number may quench my blood lust for madness drives my need, as the darkness hides my soul

we as poets,
are like birds....
in the sky.
soaring against,
the backdrop of
nature's grandeur

while aloft, we espy,
beauty and sorrow
and all the stuff....
that living life makes,
and falls forgotten,
in-between the cracks,
of just.... being.

from which,
we as poets,
glean .....
words and phrases,
that cause us to,
ponder, wonder
and cogitate.

those whispers of love.
sighing, breaths and sorrows
thoughts of futures blest,
of now, i am impressed
and yester's hollow,
and yet to be put to rest.

and bring them home,
with loving care,
to nidificate....
to interweave what we
see, hear and feel... & know
into the nesting chamber
for our wordlove....
                       for our poem