When there is no pain,
The words seem to fade,
To a faint voice in the back of my head,
To a scribble on a paper not worth sharing not worth keeping,

When there is no pain,
I feel too busy to write,
So I listen to the words in my head,
Not itching of a scribble or a write.

So all those times I write happy poems
It's me .trying to use words for comfort
In an ultimate reality of words
Disappearing in each imagination

So I'll try to write this happy poems,
No anger
As an "Inhale love Exhale hate"gesture
Even if it seem like I'm too busy at my happy moments

why do i feel caged
                                   —by the same fences, that was
               meant to make me safe.

Offer up some of your dollar,
get ready,
to win, to lose
a little bit.

Offer up some of your gusto,
get on down,
to the local
gambling hall.

Offer up some of your love,
baby doll, don't kick me,
kiss me, when I'm down.

only the good die young
the wretched stretch and fold
gray then mold
all the sinners inevitably grow old
if this is truly so,
then afterlife’s keeper must be
cruel and cold
treating life as a commodity only
while it sweats gold
of such saying, I’ve been told
and retold
life for the good runs so quickly
it slips your hold

if all good things must come to an end
then,
I shall live forever.