finding the golden nugget
by chance or concerted effort
you have to believe the golden nugget exists
and wants to be found

With a head in the sky blue
where all clouds have moved on

the blue says it all for a poet
resting there.

Where long summer songs
begin to be born

the magic of the blue
reveals her secrets.

The language of words
hide the soul within them
of a poets breath.

Assuming the familiar comfort
of a fetal position
I am waiting the day out
rocking gently
to daydreams
of every possible way to die
my muscles ache
they burn
and i'm trying so hard
not to shake apart
my seams are frayed
pulling apart
and I can see inside
see what I am filled with
knowing just what I am made of
my nerves are in tatters
as I try to bind the ends
a fruitless task
I wait for this time to pass
but even the thread I hang by
shakes it's head
and wishes me luck