Who are we if not the purveyors of justice
my rifle, my knife, these limbs.
Who are they if not the intruders of peace;
their terror, our lives, death looms.
I am hollowed: rebuilt and refilled.
My scarred face remembers what
I need not. Their faces and fear lie killed;
****** with mandate, bullet hole signature.

       The trigger finger -
                            is not mine, it’s yours.

You **** guerrilla forces, burn
villages and conquer; linger and pause.
Teach them what you had us learn,
cut them from their cage,
and coax them to our ways.
They, purveyors of peace;
you, intruder, enforcing justice.

I am a worshipper of the moon.
A seeker of the darkness of night.
A creature that side steps light,
A keeper of the shadows.
Watcher of silver moon streaked meadows,
A subservient to the crepuscular goddess.

©  Nick Strong 2014

No unecessary word,
Is needed,
Except,
Those that really
Count.


© Nick Strong 2014

This blank page was given to me,
To do with whatever I please.
All I do is sit and stare.
Ponder and mull is all I do,
What to write?
What to draw?
Where will my imagination go?

This blank page was given to me.
I am driven to fill it, to make it mine.
Fill it with the world around me,
Show it as it’s meant to be.
Maybe I’ll just doodle,
Or scribe a piece of prose.
Then again,
Maybe I should leave it.
Nothing but perfection,
Pristine, like snow.
Fresh frosty clean and ready …

© Nick Strong 2014

I see my cowardice staring back at me.
"You're gonna back out. You always do.) he says.
Not this time and with that he begins to fade.
I can't help but wonder if he's really gone.
Or if I just can't hear him any more.
I guess we'll see.

I've always been a bit of a story teller.
It's just something I've come to enjoy.
So I hope people will be able to understand that when I cover my body in ink.
That I'm telling my own story for once.

'Tis moonlight, summer moonlight,
All soft and still and fair;
The solemn hour of midnight
Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere,

But most where trees are sending
Their breezy boughs on high,
Or stooping low are lending
A shelter from the sky.

And there in those wild bowers
A lovely form is laid;
Green grass and dew-steeped flowers
Wave gently round her head.