thoughts and lyrics
travel onto pages
by a poet, a writer,
author and a dreamer.

Manhattan, her home
in New England,
the land of ideas,
innovation and curio.

dream on, my muse,
for it turns to ambition.
live your visions.
write your contemplations.

Your thick rimmed glasses,
striped sweater, black peacoat,
and white SUV from '98.

It's been over a year,
and I thought I'd never want you back,
but now I see,
I can't find the perfect man,
because I can't have you.

I can't have your intellect,
or your dry humor,
in my life ever again.
Never.

The messages you don't answer.

The songs I will not play,
I cannot play,
that I would play.

we'll chase the highways,
and make the sunrise up for us,
on our way to Connecticut

foul grace,
play with tiny fortune.

goodbye sleep,
to picture the storm.

Bob Dylan's guitar strums lingering
shuffling through my bookcase
I discover old photographs,
I feel aren't quite that old

but they are, very much so
I cry,
my heart pleas
it must not have been this long,
but it has

and time will go,
the close never suspends,
I cry more,
until I realize
it is all in my mind,
time.

discussing and listening
"maybe next time, honey"

my rebuttal, I want to explain
that weeks turn to months
"no luck, no child of mine"

but instead, I reply
"it's okay, I'm not married anyway"

writing short stories and poetry,
painting the abstract out of nature,
composing in the key of F major,
listening to my favorite musicians,
drinking coffee when I first wake up,
switching to tea by the afternoon,
staying up for the late night hours,
reading all I can, when I can,
catching up on the news,
learning new things constantly,
practicing my instruments,
waiting for a man I can do it all with.