Bright lover, sun bather.
Your soft glow hums, shimmers
Like a flickering fly as it plunges into the light.

Low whisper, dark corner.
Your walls, bruised by the
Aching cries that reverberate throughout
The valley, moan and groan.

Cold shiver, wide river.
Your rushing currents pull and
Tug at my body, naked and afraid,
As moon beams bounce off of my startled eyes.

Hot fever, sweet ginger.
Your smooth figure exhales and
Melts on the linoleum, and I slip and fall,
With little desire to rise.

Can we fix us?
Scrape the lock to our door that'd been covered in rust,
Collect pieces of our heart that'd turn to dust,
And rebuild our broken trust.
Let's fix us.

My crutch is my pen
The paper my foundation
Upon which I write
Life's trials and Tribulation

To express pent up feelings
Is a need a desire
Poetry my passion
Driven to inspire

All fellow writers
Who feel  words
Wont unlock !
They've hit the rock
Called writers block

I've been there too
Once happened to me
So I went for a walk
Took a stroll
By the sea

Or a walk in the park
Should still work fine

Just breath in the air
Clear the cluttered mind

Leading the writer
To again rearrange
A balance once lost
Your mind n spirit

Estranged

Open your mind allow
The flow of your pen

To land on the  page
Let those words dance  once  again ~~~

I keep collecting books I know
I'll never, never read;
My wife and daughter tell me so,
And yet I never head.
"Please make me," says some wistful tome,
"A wee bit of yourself."
And so I take my treasure home,
And tuck it in a shelf.

And now my very shelves complain;
They jam and over-spill.
They say: "Why don't you ease our strain?"
"some day," I say, "I will."
So book by book they plead and sigh;
I pick and dip and scan;
Then put them back, distrest that I
Am such a busy man.

Now, there's my Boswell and my Sterne,
my Gibbon and Defoe;
To savour Swift I'll never learn,
Montaigne I may not know.
On Bacon I will never sup,
For Shakespeare I've no time;
Because I'm busy making up
These jingly bits of rhyme.

Chekov is caviare to me,
While Stendhal makes me snore;
Poor Proust is not my cup of tea,
And Balzac is a bore.
I have their books, I love their names,
And yet alas! they head,
With Lawrence, Joyce and Henry James,
My Roster of Unread.

I think it would be very well
If I commit a crime,
And get put in a prison cell
And not allowed to rhyme;
Yet given all these worthy books
According to my need,
I now caress with loving looks,
But never, never read.

I want to disappear
       into a poem and compose a
   phrase for you to follow

You took my innocence
And stole my childhood
I will not forgive
I won't ever forget

I will, however
Move on

I am not a victim
I am a survivor
What you did out of weakness
Has made me stronger