Each day will be different,
And no feeling will ever last,
You’ll climb some mountains to the top,
And others you’ll fall down fast,
There will be days you can’t get up,
And nights where you can’t sleep,
This place called Life is where you’re at,
Where none of us asked to be,
There will be moments you fall in love,
And a broken heart will follow,
You’ll learn very quickly the meaning behind,
“We were not promised tomorrow,”
We all hate something about ourselves,
So we pick on others,
And we never stop to think about,
How one another suffers,
This place is hard to understand,
So make it up as you go,
And no one can tell you why you’re here,
Because no one really knows.

Poetry
to me
is taking
my pain
and making
it sing.

Tonight to myself
I'll say:
let reason be asleep
let thinking go away-

no longer shall I be caged
within any boundary
words trouble me with their insistence
testing me with their strange vocabulary-

I long for rest and sleep
my heart and soul are weary
the load of past experience oppresses
I'm struggling to be free--

shadows lurk in the night
they seem to be watching me
the winds that drift  by are whispering:
we know your sad story.

The past
leaves no tracks
only that
you imagine
you could retrace
your every step
and wish
that the outcome
had been different-

like sand
swept away
and swallowed
by the ravenous sea-

if there are tears
you weep alone
you can't reclaim
what had gone before-

like a song
sung only once
never to be heard
again

like a leaf
lost in a storm

like a flower
detached from the stem

like a star
fallen into space infinite

like clouds
dispersed

like a kiss lost
as the lover
has bidden goodbye

like love
that has died-

the past
is a disconnect
a critic
that mocks
it has no face
a mist
that has disappeared
into the nowhere.

Sentient is
the voice
of the poet
not sententious

his heart
is heavy-laden
with
the pain
of the world

his words
are tears-filled

life's sufferings
can't be thwarted
neither by prayer
or deed

poetry stands apart
as the lone chronicler
of the heart of man
an equal weeper

when someone
anywhere
is in pain
that mysteriously
filters through
the blood-stream
of a sentient poem.