Sleep is fair.
Each state is suitable for sleep
depressive or happy.

I go to public places to be alone...

I sit amongst the crowds,
listen in to their instigating alluring words,
Exhaust myself with the false pretense of social-comfort
And think about death.
As it has always been and how it will always be-
More potent than human interest, temptation, enticement or fulfillment.
In the depths of these crowds I surround myself with
The culture of the unconscious.
Nothing has ever mattered but the collected cognizance of
The fact that no human being has the internal ability to become immortal-
And nobody who belongs to the crowds worries about that. As,
To be comfortably existent means to be uninformed about your own
Insignificance.
When I am aware of my own body I am more afraid than when I am not.
I watch myself from a blackening screen,
as I destroy what I was born into until it becomes
A habit instilled within both perspectives.
I let the crowds ruin me with glances and words and drunken love
That they will not remember.
I exist as a vessel, and let the pain of my future determine the pain of
My present.
I seek to hide within the dark of a night like this that has experienced my absence and enjoyed it but,
Their glances make me feel so present...

..I can only hide within myself
by pretending that I am outside of myself..
Watching from a blackening screen...

It's so simple really,
'Let the pen write,
tell my tale,
explain how I feel!'

I cannot!
The pen is eager,
in hand.
My mind,  however,
is stubborn
and secretive

I don't want to write
although I feel the urge.
My thoughts,
are not clear enough.
I 'suspect',
yet I cannot express.

SENSATIONALISM
      catches your

EYE
     busted to the

eXTREME
     got ya

Two heads are better than one
One heart is better than two
Two heads meet and fall in love
One heart beats in rhythmic flow

One shared heart always content
Two heads always searching for
One shared heart, can meander
Two heads can pass in the night

Two heads are better than one
One heart is better than two
Three heads is a crowded room
Four hundred heads seek one heart

One heart is two times the love

My poems are not brilliant
They have no meter nor rhyme
My poems are not published
They are hardly worth a dime

My poems are read little
They are enjoyed even less
My poems are not witty
Slightly amusing at best

My poems are fun to write
They bring me simple pleasure
My poems are nothing, true
Yet writing is sure treasured

Floats down and hovers
Drenches the mood in white clouds
Foreshadows Autumn