I have no strength for devotion,

no dedication to sit at your feet,

still not averse to sensual enticements

no passion for the union through meditation;

bearing this in mind every moment,

Oh! mother divine

I adore you with the fragrant flowers of my words.

I wanted to write a poem
to tell you exactly what I felt,
but somehow the page stayed
empty,
and I couldn't have described it better.

we watch a stream
encountering its banks
or the progress of
mowing of grass..
and feel the interacting
one side and its other
the stream with the bank
the bank with the stream
mowing and grass
separations joining
until watching tires
bows and dissolves
to Awareness
which Knows only
itself...

Out of body, out of touch
If I feel at all, then I feel too much
This poem is as shallow as my grave

But I'm still digging

If I want a God then I'll misbehave
If I want to be sad then I'll entertain
Just because I'm found
doesn't mean I'm around
Just because I'm growing up
Doesn't mean I can't be down

I'm sorry, mom and dad,
but if I want to be happy then I'll have to be sad
I'll write until my fingers bleed
Until my words are the blood that the readers need

I wrote the summer long ago, and asked her to be kind. I wore down the winter bone, beckoning home, waiting for springs fine. Listen. The bow bends creaks, and banes. The swollen hope of summer wanes.

All I've ever known. Is to write these general poems. Images will flash before your eyes. But I will never let them guide you to the occurrence of my life. Every feeling I feel may be strong, but seems overly dramatic to the planets strife. This has been a brief view in my head. Enjoy these carefully constructed words of images, and build them into your life instead.

Thrills to pills to the body stills, we all will run dry. No dramatic end or cosmic bend, just a speck of dirt on Earth's shallow sigh.

Pencil to pen to stencil to end, carbon copies of an ideal. No man made normality or financial fatality, can mar what you feel.

Skin in linen so infringed in, does the future hold you so? Yes peers and stately fears can bring us to stow.

I know none of which I speak but a subtle weak week. A week far 60 years from now which you reflect how you lived your life without love to be found. And your hand will close and your muscles relax but with a stiffened heart and a metal back you'll whisper to the likes of me. And only drywall will see the cracks and only your logic or sore success will breathe.

the ocean and your eyes might as well be composed of the same things
both are
deep
dark
and have the ability to **** you in and leave you gasping for air