you don't need to be with someone at that moment

it's  intimate

too intimate

maybe

a little breeze will be all you”ll need

like a kiss on your chin

or forehead

I  would prefer calm rain

as if

someone still will want to cry for me like in the old days

like when people were dressing up in black
caring neatly folded handkerchiefs

a dream

lost in thought
chin dropped to chest
clumsily will take it out
to shed a tear

then
bent like a willow

will leave


but

if the sunrise

the sunrise will come down with me
when the birds pour forth their song
and the thick grass breathes the sleep of first lovers

or

maybe

late rains will come on their own
in the winged world will come
for the thirsty  one

this world
will try to dim your light
yours and mine
Shine Lizzie Shine
this world
will try to slow you down
you're far far from done
Run Lizzie Run
this world
may knock you down
aim higher than the sky
Fly Lizzie Fly
this world
is not as strong as you
angels watch from above
Love Lizzie Love

It doesn't take
a kitchen knife
to butcher life
or a motorbike
to ride until I die.

Instead, I take this journey
on a broken gurney,
not a suffering soldier
but a poet older
than any bolder
active warrior.

My tourniquet tightens,
as blood loss lightens
my mental load.

This damaged road
is full of broken bones
and scattered scraps
of marble stones
that no longer fit
the foundation of
a safe home
full of love.

That's why I still roam,
searching alone,
staring at my phone
looking for answers
to a call I'll never make.

Every breath I ever take
should hold some purpose,
but the truth is
my search is fruitless.
This existence is useless;
Just another wound
that will not heal
but festers and rots
as everything I thought
held value gets lost.

In my mad mathematic trend
I subtract family and friends
from my equation,
becoming the inevitable immigrant
as I finally cross life's bitter border
to nowhere…

Don't you know it.
I can be super stoic,
the sentinel of security
sitting safely secluded
to prevent people who
want to breakthrough
and intrude on those
who are trying to do
what they’re supposed to,
so they can get paid
and take care of those
who they are close to.

It is private,
inviolate.
Yet, I intrude,
dress up and abuse,
take their suffering
as my perfect muse,
take dark interludes,
and use them as cues,
as tiny clues
that lead the way
to make poems great.

Sorrowful inflections
become wordy reflections
worked to perfection
for my ego’s elevation,
for the ecstasy of creation,
and this drug I imbibe
gets me super freaking high.

Tears and stress,
bodies undressed,
hearts exposed
and in taking those
I become criminal.

Liminal moments,
seconds stolen
for the sake
of verses swollen
with emotional clarity.

I claim sincerity;
That I write these lines
to help closed mind
break the barriers
between truth
and what emotions mean.

But as these words meander on,
I wonder is it right or wrong
to write the painful songs
that do not belong to me.

The midnight sky
is large and quiet.
All of nature
has gone silent.

The stars glimmer
on the inside
and the outside
of my tired mind.

I am ready to
go to sleep,
but still standing
because I have
promises to keep.

One solitary figure
reflecting all things
that fill my exhausted
inner being
as I keep walking.

Forty-one years
have led me here,
a life I built upon
a throng
of cluttered paths
I tried to clear.

I tried to hide my fears,
but would have been
better figuring out
why I have so many doubts.

So, silence becomes my ally
as I ponder perspectives
that elude most.
I am the ghost that boasts
in poetic forms
as I declare
I still don’t know
what I am doing here.

I was not taught to write well.
In that arena I educated myself.

As I paid attention
to the frayed dimensions
my teachers failed to mention,
to the apprehension
that caused me tension
as I sat in detention
for sins no one
would clearly define.

It was clearly my mind
that wrought upon me
such severe punishments,
but in that dissonance
I found my relevance.
In my confusion
I learned to write away
my dark illusions
and replace them
with my imagination’s
strange and playful whims.

Shadows
of distorted memories,
bruises and welts
well hidden,
so child service
couldn’t see,
and every time
the counselor asked
what was bothering me,
I just shrugged
and said “nothing much,”
because afterwards
I would get
threatened or beaten
if I didn’t give her
my full confession.

It was a place
where I
had no control,
a time were
I had to do
what I was told
or else.

Then on to school
where I wasn’t cool,
just too smart for
my own good,
always reading
some different book.

Poor clothes must have
put a target on my back,
but it didn’t matter
cause I always fought back.

Some called those
the glory days
but I wouldn’t
return to that
time or place.

I came to you
with games
and love
to spare,
with a heart
that cares,
seeking to
end despair
in favor of
a better world.

You came
with hate
and violence,
the will to silence
all those who
would be kind to
you and others to.

You bombed
and brutalized
told our people
horrible lies
to make them despise
the good guys.

You turned homes
into ****** battlefields
tortured and killed
cause it was a thrill
to sit back and make
more than a cool mill.

But one day
when you
refuse to change
I will come back,
attack with rage.
I will return your plague
with the self-inflicted
bitterness made
from thinking
things could be better.

I had patience but
I lost it cuz
I've been accosted
by a boss that was
both **** and big
stinking *******.

Felt the terror
of time’s
terminal
ticking away,
chasing each day
as a parade
that works towards
my end.

Now,
it's do or die
write to live
not right to life.

So, short stalks
get lost
as I buzz by
on my
summer day drive
thinking about
what it means
to be alive.

With a single stroke
all lines are broke,
the past becomes
previous paths
that I wrote.

Death is no longer
a possible future
but a present presence,
tired of playing
and predatorily pursuing,
now settling in for chewing
up my tired old skin.

Breathes are heavy labors,
and there is no hope
that they will come easier later.

A million-fold roads
collapse into one
reality,

and unlike this poem
life finds its inevitable ending.