there was a time
when you were something
for me to begin
like a space where our roots
could settle in
we grew around each other slowly
the buds of ourselves
blooming in the quietest way

many suns have warmed
our leaves since then
our petals lost their colour and scent
and i still blame the rain
for washing you out
so i don’t have to remember
that there was such a thing as
loving you too much

Weeds are
my favorite plants.
Their bad reputations
attract me the most.
They persevere.
They are successful.
They teach me to disdain
the world's opinions.
They remind me it is good
to be on earth
for no other reasons than
the joy of sunshine and rain.
They live on the edge
where everything
interesting happens.
I am very much a **** myself.
Weeds are something you
can count on to be there.
Not many such anchors
in one life. Take a hold;
pull one out. It will be back.
Count on it.

  ~mce

You don't know me.
I’m warning you now,
don't even consider knowing me
or pretend to know me.
I've beaten lesser men
and poisoned the hearts
of lesser women
for trying to know me.

I am aggressively alone in distant observation,
away from unpredictable friends
who often transform
into entirely predictable enemies.

Alone is my simple form of silent tranquility
with my thoughts and my words
and my unfulfilled dreams.
The silhouette of a single Canadian goose
stands majestically on the shore
of the summer river
below the orange city skyline at dusk,
or the smell
of your old leather jacket
and a soft kiss
that partially wakes me
before you leave in the early morning
to never return.

Soon, the masterpiece will come.
Shh, soon you’ll fall asleep,
And maybe in your dreams discover
Words and lines to keep.

For the darkness is a tunnel
Straight to Heaven’s door,
There a thousand poets wait for you -
A thousand gone before,
Before their works were finished,
Before their jobs were through
Now creation of the masterpiece
Is solely up to you.

Hear their spirit, poet!
Listen very close.
You’ve been chosen as the protégé
But do not brag or boast
For the masterpiece consumes you,
Like hell-fire, burns you up,
Leaves you thirsting for some water
And reaching for a cup,
That crumbles when you grab it.
While the water turns to dust,
But still you keep on reaching, reaching,
You must, you must, you must.

Feel their breath, oh poet!
Cool upon your skin,
Though sweat and perspiration
Reveal the torment trapped within.
For the masterpiece consumes you,
Like a pen that’s out of ink,
Leaves you reaching for a pencil,
And needing time to think,
But both ends are erasers
Now your passion turned to lust
So still you keep on reaching, reaching,
You must, you must, you must.

For the darkness is a tunnel
A tunnel straight to Hell
There a thousand poets wait for you -
At a long abandoned well,
Before their works were finished,
The waters all ran dry
There will be no masterpiece
If all the poets die.

Shh, soon the masterpiece will come.
Shh, soon you’ll fall asleep,
And a thousand poets after you
Will search for words and lines to keep.
Phil Lindsey 6/9/15

I have read too many poems
From those of you who want to die.

I read the words, I hear your voice,
Yes, I hear your desperate cry,
I am torn and heart-sick at your plight;
Yet, I have to ask you why?
For when you close your eyes forever,
The hurt and pain won’t go away,
It crawls inside all those you love,
Where it kills them every day.

Were you jilted by a lover?
Are you an addict, beaten down?
Or is it that you don’t fit in
On the ‘right’ side of the town?
Does no one understand you?
Or “It doesn’t matter anyway”,
Because when you try to tell us,
We listen not to what you say?

No, I cannot feel the pain you bear
But I understand it’s real
Is there anything that I can do,
To try and help you heal?
Do you want someone to hold your hand?
Do you want a shoulder for your tears?
Do you want someone to scream at you?
Or hold you tight and calm your fears?

Do you need a teacher?  Or a coach?
Or a banker for your debt?
Do you want a job that’s interesting,
Or any job that you can get?
Do you want to make somebody proud?
Or find someone to share your life?
Or do you only want a yes-man
To hand you the pills, give you the knife?

You may say, “Shut up old man! –
Don’t want to listen to your ****.
You’ve always had it easy,
You always won, you never had to quit.
You don’t have a ******* clue.”
And you’re right I probably don’t
But if you keep it all inside,
No one will, and I sure won’t.

Please seek some help, I beg of you
You each have talents, and a heart
There’s a remedy or cure somewhere
For the pain that’s tearing you apart
I’m not a doctor, or a shrink
But I’ve seen suicide up close,
It hurts and devastates the ones
Who loved the victim most.
Phil Lindsey  6/8/15
                     **1-800-273-8255