I watch the blanket breathe,
hope it will never stop.

white, cellular, keeping warm,
the one I love, so vehemently.

scares me, this intensity of feeling,
that never stops,

and continues when the blanket lays quiet……

sbm.

Pillows hold so many secrets.

There's the tear stained nights
and midnight chit chats.
There's whispers of regret
and sleepy heads.

Some turn to pillows from over exaustion
and others toss and turn with insomnia.
Drunken heads that have passed out
and ones that block out the bad with sleep.

Sleep talking, monolouges and bed time storys.
"Dont worry my darling it will all be okay"
Woes are spilt and soaked in
by our trusted pillows.

*If only they could talk, oh the secrets.

When the apostrophe disappears
from ones verse or prose
its plain to see
theres mayhem, and everyones brain is  muddled
I cant make sense of what youre saying
and the judge cant tell if the farm is
Joes or Marys or Philips
or quite literally the pigs own

And of course when it appear’s
in the wrong place’s, it get’s up
everyone’s nerve’s or nose’s;
and it cause’s an identity crisis
between its and it’s;
and its’ like ****’
(thi’s mess’ is’)–
please, please, please -
running down to one’s toe’s

It’s obvious to see
that the apostrophe -
that comma that hangs in the air -
is worth mastering
or may you hang in its stead

You would have loved
Edinburgh Ole
another place
you never got to see

you wanted to go
I know
I could have been
your guide

I know the place
like the back
of my proverbial hand
could have taken you

along Princes Street
taken you up
Scott's Monument
up the narrow stairs

to the top
or in the gardens below
with flowers
and seats

the bushes
or up
the Royal Mile
with all its history

and sights
we could have gone
into the Castle
and viewed

each historical inch
(you would have
dug that all
that silent history

waiting
to be ****** in)
the one 0' clock gun
the view from the top

over all the city
but I can see you now
making your own
way there

(in spirit)
in your own
good time
walking in

your own casual pace
in your Doors tee-shirt
and blue jeans
the dark shades

the hair fresh cropped
short maybe
showing the scars
your smile(great smile)

taking in
a few bars
on the way
breathing in

the smell of beer
and scotch a
small taster
in your silver case

in your back pocket
you standing
on Arthur's Seat
having walked

to the top
(maybe breathless)
and seeing
the horizon

beyond the City's touch
enjoy Ole
make it
when you can

miss you
my son
my Ole
my man.

melancholy music
and strings like water droplets
line my insides
and leak outward
like ten
different kinds of plasma
that no one can interpret

i want my hands to play
the role of the cradle to your cranium
while my lips play the protagonist
and yours will be the love interest
the conflict consists of lack of breath and sore jaws
five minute recess and then action

In the world we are living in, it's hard to bring out your best.  People seem to provoke you, so you can't past the test.
In the world we are living in, we are forced to pay so many bills.  You sit back and wonder, when will they ever yield?
In the world we are living in, within there is a loud scream.  If only someone can listen, if only you can be seen.
In the world we are living in, there is so much stress.  Don't allow it to cause you depression, get rest and try to worry less.
Don't let stress get you down, you are worth more than that.  Somehow, learn to be happy, refrain from becoming upset.
By, Sandra Juanita Nailing

The sun went down hours ago
& it took forever for the moon to rise
on his little part of the world.
He heard the cries of the fallen,
those destitute of hope,
he saw their hidden glory,
the beauty of their heart,
he knows about pain,
his he felt.

It is indeed cold,
no breeze blows &
a stillness has settled,
the starless night awaits him.
Long and hard he has thought
about the meaning of allegory,
wondering about truth,
the changing of the tides.
No longer is he in need,
to hide is to show weakness,
kindness is his strength,
he shall not want again.

He has packed his bags for the journey,
there will be no more dedications,
the silence invites him,
comforts him,
he's not coming back.

There were no friends there,
everything was an illusion,
the kinship topical.
He figures to move south,
embrace the subtropical,
fish the shoreline,
nobody will miss him
or even kiss
the ground he walks on.

He's good with that.