and all I can think of is sad things about wood
about how from child to adulthood
it's stuck where its put
and stood where it stood
I wonder if wood would avert its eyes if it could

soaking up the blood of Hemingway's brain
and staring into the grieving eyes of bed ridden Twain
unable to scream at the Adam and Eve, twain
as they fruitfully leapt into the mortal plane

does it retain in its rings and grains
(more than brick walls and marble veins)
memories of plague strains and reining Charlemagnes

do they like their scars and bloodied stains
or is this just a little inane/insane

It is hard for me
To let you go
Our love so true
My eyes do show

I miss you my love
Though I must move on
Only he above
Knows if we are truly gone

What beauty
such savagery,
how
will she manage me?

in short doses
he supposes
(ouch)

On St George's quay
she tames me
ties me to the dock
and names me

it's like being born again
christened before torn again
into pieces.

the last vestiges
of sunlight shall return to  
a dusk horizon

I live in my head
I have my own room there
My own bed
Where I do my best thinking
Where I am most comfortable
It keeps me up most nights
Making to do lists and analyzing
conversations from days before
Daydreaming about everything
Some of the thoughts I have
are down right crazy
So crazy that it must not be me
there must be other people up there
and hell not just a room but a whole house
with several rooms and several conversations
I can envision it clearly
Sometimes I stay there for days
The lights are on
My shades are open
But no ones home
I do return to the real world and have
real conversations but seems like I
Always return to my head
Where I live
In my own room and my own bed

I am in a prison
Prison of my mind
Somebody , help me
Rescue me from myself
My mind love playing games
Have various ways to torture me
It takes me to the depths of emotions
Play with each and every vulnerability
And I do not know how to protect my self