I came here to watch the sunset upon the horizon
like a beast upon its prey,
so that dusk may set upon me
and I could be a man lost within the fray.
A man torn between day and night.
A man torn between right and wrong.
A man torn between life and death.
Uncertain, unknowing of his future,
unwanting, unneeding of his past.

I came here to think.
No.
I knew what I was thinking,
I came here to weep.

I come from a place of
broken hearts and
broken homes of
broken promises and
broken bones from
broke parents and
never a broken dream 'cause
there may have been
rough nights on
rough streets with
rough hands doing
rough work. It was,
tough times in front of
tough men and it was
tough luck yeah it was
tough then. But I
keep going, I
keep trying, and I
keep reaching, and I
keep striving. I've
been at my worst and
the worst is yet to come
but one things sure,
I'm   still    not    done.

Ambulatory but surely I can't run away from this.
Because, even when I feel like dying,
I know I've just got to keep on trying,
because,
no matter how steep the hill,
no matter how high the climb,
no matter how heavy the weight.
Quitting is not an option.
When you start to feel like nothing,
just do something,
because failing,
is better than giving up.
I may never reach the stars,
but maybe, my feet will leave the ground,
and maybe, I'll achieve that weightless feeling.

Perfumed scent,
something subtly sweet.
The smell of fruit and flowers.
Feminine life lingering,
a love everlasting.
Entwined like vines with oak,
a musk,
a man.
A lover lost on the wind.
The smell of sweat,
of passion.

I am a man.
I have let my masculinity define me.
I must be strong,
I must be in control,
I must know what needs to be done.
I am supposed to be the more logical ***.
Although I have never believed these ideas,
I have let society push me into this box.

I have hid,
I have ran,
I have distracted.
This façade is a strong, intelligent man,
he bases his life on logic and reason,
he knows little about emotion,
he knows a lot about science.
He is not an artist,
he is not a poet.

But of course he is.
Of course, we all really are.

Art and language is how we express our humanity,
there is no division of the logical and the creative,
there is not two designs of thought,
we are fluid.
Nothing in life is black and white,
nor is it varying shades of grey,
we exist in full, vibrant colour.

The mask must be removed,
there should be no guilty pleasures,
there shall be no more lies,
I am me, nothing more, nothing less.
I do not fit in a box, no-one does.

The ground beneath me is frozen,
my breathe turns to fog,
the wind caresses my skin softly
I feel it's icy cold hand on my neck.

The mourning sun comes up sullen,
depressed into the horizon,
slowly rising, turning ice into mist around the grave,
burying life, and love, and loss.

An old oak stands bare behind the stone,
its bark, wrinkled and aged.
I place cold flowers, plucked from the earth,
laying life on death, so it may wilt away.

A tear frozen on my cheek,
the moment stopped in time,
me and my grief alone,
I miss you, dear friend.

I live my life in fantasy,
I am always daydreaming,
or am I always sleeping?
I cannot tell what is real,
and what is a construct of my mind.
Imagination overlays my senses.
Did I see you or did I create you?
Is the sky even blue?
Every shade of red I see in the sunset hue,
I see blue in black as all goes dark,
I see stars twinkle, but if I stare too long most fade from sight,
and as I blink, they flash back into existence.
Are they really there?
I feel as though the moon is always full, I see the dark side filling in a crescent of light.
I smell earth and metal below the wet grass but most only smell the mildew rising up as the sun pulls water into air.
Hot air above concrete, it distorts my sight.
Can I truly trust my own senses?
Maybe I should only trust thought.
But my thoughts are merely a compilation of all I have ever experienced.
What can be trusted in life?