I am not a great man
By any means
But I am
One of the many
Known as Me
A simple complexity
Far from deity
A human
Being
Me

Behind the mask of distant past
Where the memories still mill abound

Within the frame of paper mache
Where the words, oh yes, the words can be found

Beneath the eyes, below the cheeks
Is a smile ever winding down

And I am but one such memory, perhaps
As a word once kept around

One of these days the world will wake up
And I won't be in her bed anymore
Stroll through the earths kitchen commonly
To no blueberry sounds or pancake feelings flat
And then just like that
She'll know and know
That I'm nothing like her
And so this morning
I go

The real question
Real struggle of life
Is how
You will live
With it

No monument of me be made
Or carving placed once I am gone
But please instead
Let my borrowed words be but a memory of mine
And if you should find yourself compelled by them
And must appreciate them based on a similarity of mind
Letit be done so, quickly, quietly, personally
Don't ***** out a single stanza in the name of me
Thank you
I'd appreciate it most greatly

No mountain range is worth the hike with you by side
Nor seat stays warm in conversive pace
Though it’s sad to see wasted such a pretty sunrise
Your particular light is not to my eyesight a pleasant taste

Any word
That was ever written
For the sake of money
Is no longer sacred

Scathing with regret
Within the I'm mind

It's in due time
That you will find
Your forward self
Looking back on history

So that at least when writing
For youself

You earn a greater
Peace of mind
In keeping with your own kind

Listen to the verbiage
The quietness of a different nature
The winds, the woods, the wildness
I am not my father
Though I am his son
I am me
And the past, the pretense
That's who he is

Searching for the truest of words
The quest of me
Is a sermon for an audience of one
Or two perhaps?
Maybe

When I wake tomorrow, there will be no waiver. No wall or water to crest over me. When my kneck pulls my head from the pillow of bed, I will stare into the eyes of a newborn day, and challenge it with anew consistency.

Nothing...today...will stop me.

Would it be rude of me?
At such a far proximity
To not breathe breath back into our being?

Cold and quiet as the morning
Laying still like the undisturbed sheets
Windowless without sense or feeling

Would you consider it mean?
If I chose to not let this proud chest beat?
And collapse in a time like the hills into a cavity

Just as riverous words cuts the valley sharp
And the tongue softens both pen and quill
How rude would it be if I didn’t care about our relationship lying still?

She is a portrait in my mind
A canvas of flesh and blood
With an ink stain upon her chest
Where her heart still beats steadily
He life turning like the ocean
Her eyes as stead as the water underneath
She is a portrait and yet a friend of me
And by the sea she will always be

I’m afraid of walking down this road.
Terrified that one day I will not be able to go back and smell the flowers.
That all of the beautiful scenes of my youth will have passed.
And that I somehow did not designate enough time,
To hold them close, to see them clear, and somehow make them truly last.
I’m fearful of roads, because of that.
And I fear how quickly underneath my feet they seem to pass.
Created by these human hands, designated by men, and traveled by kings.
The fear of walking down such roads too quickly,
Is most definitely a haunting thing.

The world's OK, it's the people that spoil it.

The expression you are as you say you are is not true if you actually are not as you say you are.

Did you know?

That those shimmering shining reflective lines
Are from the deepest puddles man has yet to know?

And yet we call them ghosts
Out of limelight fear
Not of London made
But no less below

For beneath every living thing there is this
A shadow

Sleeping soundly on your memory now

I dream of uncollected worlds
Where young girls dance at summer weddings
And foolish men take their cars for spins and whirls

I've seen you less and less, in the headlights of happiness
My onetime escape
From you I'm free

Within the dance of newfound reflectiveness, I'm free indeed

Reteach me the lesson
Not greatest of all
But most pertinent to me
Which dissolves all resentment
Teach me that of contentment

I’ll be on the mountain top* with the stars around my ears. My God to lift my life filled bones, higher than every tree and stone atop the slowly turning earth.  The embodiment of bird and sky, with word filled wings to bend the wind and to cut the currents of this life.  Like the westerlies, the blueish skies and the seas my father painted in my eyes.  

And you will be in the valley below* with the same... foolish... guy.

Pity this,

But not you Miss Fish.

Pity me for the try.

Like a paddle lean
Cut the water with yourself
And dig it deep as I have

That way you may not forget yourself
Within this tidal swirl
The wave of life and the currents underneath

Writers block is a state of mind

Pour yourself out
Fill your cup
And caffeinate

Don't ****
But live the time

It is September
And this mountiantop mind
Cannot make itself up
Or make itself out of the true sight
That this warming snow exists

Space...
The only thing
Between these arms which ache.

Rain...
The only falling thing
In this loveless town.

Time...
Like every passing sight
Which was meant to be felt.

And pride...
For the only thing in your life
Worth tearing down.

These are the things always abound.

Not Mary, never Elizabeth
My Anne Elliot
Marry me
Why do you tarry
Especially when I'm not longer at sea

Eventually you forget how to escape
To open the door at the back of your mind
And walk on though it
Into the new
And that is why we should value our innocence
And our children in such a way as we do

Careful we
Must always be
Not to isolate ourselves
Because the mind may think
That it's best to fall
From the reasons of former self
But prepared for such things
Inevitably
Lest we are not
Or never will
Be
Ready to concur the former self
To maximize you
Is to challenge through the eyes
Of me

Uncomfortable
Be it called by my own name
I must reply now
Not in haste or anger still
But in active truth most kind

Give me quiet ambition.

Give me blank space and lines.

Give me jazz like cold coffee to cool this hot headache of mine.

Give me presence most impartial.

Give me back peace of mind.

Give me time but not too much of it.

Give me only what's mine.

No words will ever say or stay
The chilling storm
The quiet calm
Or the persistent want which cannot be reached

No
Words can only bridge those gaps
Which wish to be bridged  

Because storms give way to rampant floods
Which wash away the builders hopes
When poorly built

In such instances as these
Words are not always the best way
To build and begin again

How little do I think of you?
So little that I will delete this soon,
Just to erase all living memory of you.
You deserve no such words more than two.
Forgotten now,
Forgotten are you.

Having children of my own, somewhere, someday...
Will be to me, the most phenomenal distraction from self which could ever be...

You know half of the worries
More than that…
ALL of the worries inside your head
Are entirely your own
And therefor are in need of one thing
OWNERSHIP if you please
For it would please you more than such constant worry
To be free of such things

All descriptors
And ideas of self
Fade like the days spent walking
Down the path of possibly

And time
Time lasts just as surely
As it waits for no man named me

Hence why
Is the question which I ask myself
Must I try and be
When I've already become

Beauty be it in the eye.

The same eye makes me wonder.

Both if and how your hair falls like this ... Most naturally.

And naturally so... If you even try?

My soul was not born
For you in the interest of
When you come to me