Every Sunday he went to the church
wasn't too religious not really much
dressed in his best and tidily neat
he followed the routine by sheer habit
he sought nothing never spelt his wants
joined the others in the rhythmic chants
till years made him frail and old
found him a coffin dark and cold
carried on the hearse to the church he went
prayers were held he remained silent.

I am a nervous poet; sleep with my pen under my pillow.
All my sheets are white. And that's despite the fact that

I sleep with all my verbs on.

I've had friends that were good who were poets that are dead,
And the poem always got them in their sleep.

I rhyme with one eye open. I give birth in my sleep like a bear
To cubs that have left their crap on the notepad in the morning.

All over it; like letters from one poet to another -a thankful thing
Since poets say nice things nicer than non-poets; and even insult with

Slightly more finesse.

But it always gets you in the end, the poem. It gets you with the
Caps Lock, and you can see the Head of the Title, and then...

I'm a nervous poet; sleep with my pen under my pillow.
I traded it for a *****.

I'll dig with it.

I haven't drank in ninety days
Way to go you fookin' saint
You haven't killed in thirty years
But St. Zachary you ain't.

Her husband sells used broken cars
I get to kick the tires
While he gets soaked at all the bars
I'm putting out his fires.

I'm pleading down to purgatory
As Satan winks at me
Though punishment be mandatory
I'll not burn for perjury.  ;)

r ~ 4/27/14

"God is love."
Is He?
Because according to God,
the love I feel is a sin.
It's wrong to feel so loved.
Is God love when I write love poems for another woman?
When she holds my hand,
is He love then?
An understanding God accepts all love.
Is God love?

My poetry is not for you.
My heart is.
My words belong to the wind.
Emotions cause this volcano to explode.
A release of rhythm, of prose
Of joys and of pains
Of memories of today.

You are a muse.
That's amusing.
A tempest of a temptress,
Your touch sings maladies on my soul.
A dirge of crystal tears
Reflecting lost hope
Lost love.

This poem is not for you.
Yours is a smile that lightens
This burdensome heathen.
Whilst your scorn leaves new scars
Over old,
Like a worn patchwork cloak,
That no wizard ever wore
But this one dons with the certainty
Of the pious
And the loved.

Don't try and save me.
Thousands have tried and failed,
watched disappointingly,
each time I've derailed.
Don't set of shore and raise the sails.
Im drowning,
Sinking in a sea of what could have and what should have been
There is no life boat strong enough to take back the things I've seen
withhold my weighty heart.
my soul is anchored in the the darkest parts,
The murkiest waters.
It is held down in the depths
of despair
Save your own sons and daughters.
Im a wasted rescue mission.
Throw down your ammunition
i have enough to tear myself apart.