you don't fool all!

you might hide behind
a glass of mesquite
but most people (beings)
read beneath your depth

that may be as shallow as a puddle

but don't we all muddle
through the rain?
and see our feet get wet?

However!?

There are roads that most won't
purposely walk at night
because on such desolate paths
things are wont to cause fright

However

Our Gonzo sits in the middle
of the path
a drink in one hand
and in the other?
Part of an old soul escaped
just looking for the other half
telling jokes about himself
that make others laugh
and he sips their happiness
from a half empty glass

Gonzo is just a paperweight
that sits heavily on a boney frame
John Patrick Robbins is an amazing writer, flesh and blood
A lover, a fighter
that leaves little rays of sunshine
on the path to Insane

i am made of...
thought...
ink and pen and paper... and so much more.
scribbled phrases on diner napkins.
post it notes stuck to walls.
scrawled doggerel in bathroom pens.
phrased ideology in lined notebooks.
spinnered words on lazerprinted A4.
scraps of inklings, on ripped butcher's bags and wrappings.
condolences in funeral books.
ideas capital lettered on cards,
pinned to cork boards.
epitaphs stonemasoned
into granite blocks.
fury arranged just so,
on parchment.
newsprinted with loose blurry, black ink on broadsheets
scribed by pointed stick on
firm wet sand.
notes on heavy cards, of love
and light bright shiny stuff.
discarded sentence startings, left crumpled, lost in a bin.
loss, written with red wine on white table cloth.
art, etched on vellum anciently old, suprisingly relevent.
tapped into tablets both stone
and techview.
blue and red markers squeaked onto white boards.
daubed on canvas with a fine sable brush.
tatttoo-ed upon ones flesh.
carved into wooden school desks.
pressed into moist clay by delicate fingernails.
marked so deeply upon a soul.
chalked to cement,
to stay for...
but a short season.
written for some very, (un)important reason.
courage to speak, sing, whisper, shout, cry, laugh, observe and ponder.
this is me....
i am a word written down.. any word, any word.
i am undeniable, desirable often incomplete
always open  always waiting
for some one...
......just like you ...
to open your heart let me in
to recognize a new start
to have a play, a scribble,
doodle, pen jive. to become
alive.... to thrive,
just begin with a single letter.....then another,
go on be brave...
..........grant me liberty....