Odd, how fast it happens.
An hour ago you felt
like a man on a mission from god.
Then, it strikes like lightning
from an impossibly cloudless sky
and your heart explodes into
a confetti puff of darkness.
Suddenly you feel
like a bleached out
pile of cat **** in the rain.
"Good days and bad days
and going half mad days."
It never lasts, but that
doesn't make it any less real.
Attachment breeds suffering.
Let it go and it will,
until your next turn at bat.
Till then the sun will shine down
on the nothing new world
again for a little while.
Enjoy the warmth while it lasts.
   ~mce

You sleep in shudders,
In thundestorms and clouds,
You dwell in nightmares,
Unseen demons,
Wrapping you in shrouds.

You talk like madness,
You raise up ghosts,
You fear the monsters
Of children’s dreams,
Ever but feebly engrossed.

I hide your fears,
Behind closed doors,
I bring back summer in poems and
Repeat your favourite words;
An attempt to soothe the angered sores.

I fill others with your own lies,
A promise of better days,
Of words written in your own hand.
I deceive them of my cares,
Protecting your mind’s maze.

But still there are unhealed scars,
Quiet whispers and silent sighs
And I wish I could ease you
Into one night of rest,
If you could just close your eyes.

What I ink to my page is not poetry,
There is not rhythm or rhyme, nor reason.
The empire state is no structure to my art.


What stains my page is not creativity,
Squiggles and lines leave marks from my mind.
The blank canvas does not lead to my masterpiece.


Words are my patchwork quilt,
Adjectives and nouns thread together my memoirs.
There's no glamour in my prose.


What I ink to my page is not poetry,
nor is it my intellect or wisdom.
What I ink to my page is life.