Tread softly
Over the tracks of gentle spring
Come and go quickly
Like the breeze before the storm.

Make not a mark upon this world;
Sail through boundless seas
As larks and thrushes do.
Disappear from the flowering trees
With the incidental meet,
An ivory invitation's worth,
Of muffled May showers.

And enter as the wind
Carressing budding leaves - soft -
Cradling anxious clouds,
Cartwheeling up above
Against the paths
Of geese returning home,
Crying with muted colors.
And then the howling hushes -
Tuned at last -
With soft, almost silent, syncopations.

Tread softly, my love,
Over the tracks of gentle spring.

We sit comfortably with our backs to the earth,
Satisfied with what we've accomplished of our insurmountable work,
The challenges we've faced to push ourselves forward,
So we can out achieve our peers.

We struggle to win the  respect of those we wish to surpass,
So they can catapult us above them
But we left them behind didn't we?
Did we look back as we flew aloft?

When the thunder crashes on us,
Who'll be there to save us?
No one but our precedent friend,
We'll get by with ourselves again.

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

Thou Power! who hast ruled me through Infancy’s days,
  Young offspring of Fancy, ’tis time we should part;
Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,
  The coldest effusion which springs from my heart.

This *****, responsive to rapture no more,
  Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing;
The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar,
  Are wafted far distant on Apathy’s wing.

Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre,
  Yet even these themes are departed for ever;
No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire,
  My visions are flown, to return,—alas, never!

When drain’d is the nectar which gladdens the bowl,
  How vain is the effort delight to prolong!
When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul,
  What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song?

Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone,
  Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign?
Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown?
  Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine.

Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love?
  Ah, surely Affection ennobles the strain!
But how can my numbers in sympathy move,
  When I scarcely can hope to behold them again?

Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done,
  And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires?
For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone!
  For Heroes’ exploits how unequal my fires!

Untouch’d, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast—
  ’Tis hush’d; and my feeble endeavours are o’er;
And those who have heard it will pardon the past,
  When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no more.

And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot,
  Since early affection and love is o’ercast:
Oh! blest had my Fate been, and happy my lot,
  Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last.

Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne’er meet;
  If our songs have been languid, they surely are few:
Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet—
  The present—which seals our eternal Adieu.

I have a poem written in my notebook,
but I think it can wait.
Because, at this moment,
I have something else to say.
****** Sick because of the Randy Mumble
Take me to the hopsital, unbury me from the Rubble.
I think this is sounding lame,
but I'm a cliché; it's my claim to fame.
Not fame, per sé, I don't like the lime light.
But behind the scenes, and of course the clubs at night.
This poem isn't very good.
It's more like a diary entry,
than a piece of poetry.
I think the one in my notebook is better.

I'd like to think that she's thinking:

"How far have I fallen?"

As she sits on the corner of her bed,

Listening to the soft buzz of his battery-powered toothbrush.

I imagine her,

Running her fingers through her clumsy, coagulated hair.

Glancing at her chipped, crimson toe nails,

Then looking to her class ring,

Made entirely of imitation ingredients,

Wondering when is the proper time to trash it.


When she was still a friend of mine,

I never saw her wear make up,

I never saw her show off in tight jeans

or low-cut tees.


But as he spews the toothpaste into the sink,

Skinny jeans lay tussled on the floor,

Next to the side door

that leads to his sister's side room.

The make up she wears

is from the night before.

It's skewed and shows evidence of running,

Like a wasted watercolor.


I'd like to think he isn't that handsome,

And that he's obsessed with Paul Walker.

I'd like to think when he re-enters the room,

He's in grey sweatpants,

He's wearing a black tank top,

With a Confederate flag backdrop,

With two barely dressed babes looking ******

in the foreground.


His hair, unwashed and greasy.

He rubs his belly,

And bears an idiot grin

on his face.

Looking like he just learned how to smile

at this pace.

"Did it feel good?"

feel good.

After he asks, he scans her body,

Beginning at those crimson toes,

And Ending at that clumsy hair.

Every second he scans,

He still wears that drawn-on

Idiot grin.


I'd like to think at this point she thinks of me.

Of my warnings and prophesy.

Her eyes start at the chipped toe nails,

Course over her tanning bed-inspired legs.

And finally reach the only thing she has on,

A t-shirt that belongs to his sister.

A t-shirt, when given by him,

It was mentioned, "thanks, mister".


Though she didn't satisfy all his redneck intentions,

During last night's expedition.

He still paid her back with a morning

one-sided session.

"It felt good" she says.

In reference to the ten minute *******,

When her body was strummed and plucked,

Underneath his sister's Terri Clark T-shirt.


As she sits in the filth and the ****** fallout,

On a bed that is six days *****,

While he is grinning,

Being everything but wordy.

I'd like to think she's thinking:

"How far have I fallen?"