The lake holds my faces reflection
The winds effect, ripple my face.
Giving me stress lines and aging each minute that passes bye.
Like life in a mirror, is my reflection to this lake. The wind is the artist drawing his expressions of the world's weight in forms of lines on my face. I watch sitting patiently my self growing older as I think away my thoughts, setting each new one free to the sky like a bird in time. I don't need them any more, my thoughts,  what for?
Waste away my time, thinking of simpler times. Freedom is the detached feather floating in summers sky. This feather, is a feather  for the expression of my mind.

A true writer
Is not a writer who gloats
He is a person who asks
How can I improve?
How does this affect you?
Etc. Etc. Etc.
Have you seen him?
Do you know him?

He's the quiet one
The one who is studying every movement of that spider that is dangling over your coffee in his favorite cafe.

Deep logical movement
Correct use of language
Understanding his subject
Before illustration of his work can be read.

For if you did
This man
Is the man
The character of his own work
The spider struggling not to fall from its web into the scouring pits of a café mocha.

Reading through my archives
Of life
On little pieces of paper, napkins and fast food wrappings.

I came upon a note to self and proceeded to read it.
It was dated a year ago and the time was "way past closing time"
So I figured it must be good.
It said "dear self your work ***** and is to short lengthen it!"

At first I was taken back at how angry I was at myself, but then remembered how my readership had been slowly decreasing.

I decided to listen to this old drunken "wisdom" of mine and lengthened many of my works.

I actually didn't think they were to bad either, until I posted them and only got few comments with no likes.
The comments read "your poetry is to long and boring" "what happened to your short blunt to the point fluency? "

That's what a get for listening to the drunken me and taking advice from a fool.

Critics are fine, but bad comments can hurt a guy.
Guess I'll go back to my usual writes with my slowly dying off fan base for a few praises to brighten my ego for however long this three line poet has left in this field of potholes and hand grenades.

Flame
Water
Mist
Mixing feelings
It's you I miss

Steam rises to its sun
Running home
From the ground.

The ground has cooled
Now the fire's gone
Leaving water in puddles
All alone.

VooDoo child
Gypsy of the night
Saber tooth gemini
Carrying blood
On your knife
Kingdoms come
And kingdoms fall
Never ending
To the werewolves call
Howling screams
To the moon
To be nocturnal
Not to choose
A thirst for love
A love for hate
A lust for blood
A kiss to late

I'm cornered in
The blackened sky
Staring through its
Silver stars.

Darkness never felt this good
Before
Darkness felt so good

My
eyelids close like a gates caged doors.
To
Locked in tight
The asylum of my mind.

Where my dreams once spoke
Now are just nightmares singing
Lullabies.

We aren't really living
We are just not dead
The difference lies
In these lullabies
Dancing in my head

Closing my eyes
Locking in tight
The caged darkness
Of the living dead

Awake I do
To the stars above
Happiness my minds slavery
To a hateful - type of love.

Searching, and it may never stop
For if it stops then you simply have failed.
Purpose
Purpose reformed
For we cannot deliver performance once we stop to search
Is the search over?
Without search once purpose is found is the time to deliver our performance in lewd of getting the message.