she's beauty you think
sashaying through your mind
she's perfect in pink
anathema to our kind

he's brilliant you swear
as he climbs upon the altar
he's courageous, he's fair
come to save us when we falter

her beauty a mask
his brilliance a disguise
all bent to the task
of selling the lies

the deepest truth hidden,
reality’s grandest lark—
we are all ugly, broken children
stumbling blindly through the dark

as the sun softly sets
south of Sarasota bay
the gentle waves whisper
and the palm leaves sway

a rainbow of fire
lights the clouds as they pass
and rekindles my memories
of the years that have past

sand scrapes my skin
sea salt air fills my soul
the ocean at sunset
is where my hearts whole

Life is a game
that noone will want to play with you
if you go around pointing it out.

I'm not sure when it happened.
When I stopped moving foward.
Surely it couldn't always have
been this way.

Did I get here by accident?

Somewhere on the road to middle age,
I pulled my sensible sedan
to the side of the road.

Sitting under a shady overpass
content to watch the world
pass me by.

I can't do this.

I can't sit still.

Life is movement,
growth,
change,
and struggle.

To stop moving forward
to stop struggling
to stop growing
to stop changing

is to stop living!

of all the million moments
that make up a life,
the ones I shared with you
will be what flash before my eyes
at the end of it all.

a poem for the perturbed
partially peeved
marginally miffed
indirectly disturbed

not for those in love
not for loss or for longing
not for the haughty highbrow
half hazardly happy saps
that drown you in their
dizzily delerious
words about joy and wonder

this poem is for the average joe
joe sixpac joe normal
kicked back, laid back
ignoble informal

working class
pain in the ***
foul mouthed, burnout
college drop out
that doesn't have two
sweet words to rub together

this poem is for me

and you... if you want it.