Late night scribbles
with late night riddles
maybe morning made dribbles
with half thought out middles
whether it's wood you whittle
or a cello you fiddle
it's never too late to jot down those scribbles.

From the center of my mind
To the tips of my fingers
I sit inside and find
that mostly love now lingers.

But the tips of my fingers feel like slamming the keys
No longer able to hide this rage in my soul
All that I've been longing for is peace to free
However to some, I have a heart of coal

My intentions are just that is for certain
It's breaking it feels with every thought
I've put myself behind this mentally ill curtain
For this type of enlightenment is rarely sought

The paper, or web is greater in this matter
For hurling my words to silence my own chatter

To put my mind to rest
Seems to me no simple quest

Maybe I am slightly mentally ill...
But least I seek not of an overseas ****.

Often I see people flee, seeming to conspire in their own vanity
It seems, simply to me, that such people crush to deny vain insanity

I probably won't be in your history books
Nor your top charts
Nor your favorite reading nooks
But I'll be in your hearts.

You'll find me there with a candle and a pillow
Maybe even righting my next rhyme.
I might ask you to climb the tallest willow
or simply if you have the time.

The Mind of a poet is not easily found
For it can swerve it's curve at the edge of a sound.
It's as if they hear the trees speak, please, from forests now drowned.
Each poet should be downed in crowns for the things they found.
Not treated like a stray wolf who was sent to the pound.