I've heard about this all my life,
   my Home in Beulah Land;
Those pearly gates and streets of gold,
   all formed by Your own hand.

I hear You've built a mansion there,
   a special place for me;
Its on a hill with greenest grass,
   beside a Crystal Sea!

Now Lord don't take this wrong at all,
   I'm thankful for all things;
But since I'm just a country boy,
   a mansions not my dream.

A little place, just outside town,
   surrounded by huge trees;
The sounds of nature at my door,
   would be morefit for me!

A broken down old picket fence;
   with squeaky wooden gates;
A muddy road not travel worn,
    to me would five star rate!

A tire swing hung 'round a branch,
   the buzz of honeybees;
A bed so full of daffodils,
   a few small dogwood trees.

A cozy place to call my Home,
   a noisy front porch swing;
No more I'd want for all of time,
   but place to hang my wings!

You see My Lord, not hard to please,
    I'm just a simple man;
A cabin made from Heavn'ly logs,
   now THAT'D be Glory Land!

With you now gone
With no one to hold on
Emotions are mine alone
Mine to own

All alone I'll keep my secret
I know just where I'll keep it
I'll keep them in my pen, my ink
Deep into the paper I'll let it sink

This universe is so ******* cruel
Suffering here without you
You where my rock, my Dimond
Now who is all alone... Well I am

So I feverishly scratch, like cat with claw
I write it all out, big and loud on my wall
After I'm gone, maybe someone will read
Till that day my pen will still bleed

You raise the flag of rage.
You rise to spit your hate.
I feel the venom of your pain.
Why do you spend it that way?

Please don’t make me bury my brother.
Soft dirt moved to fully cover the
dried brown ground they put us all under.
Please don’t make me bury my brother.

You’ve got loads of bullets.
You’ve got armor piercing type.
You’ve got the will to spend them
and reap their red counterfeit.

Please don’t make me bury my brother.
Soft dirt moved to fully cover the
dried brown ground they put us all under.
Please don’t make me bury my brother.

You say that you’re an American patriot.
You say you’re a cowboy soldier.
You say you want to save this country
with the blood of those who oppose you.

Please don’t make me bury my brother.
Soft dirt moved to fully cover the
dried brown ground they put us all under.
Please don’t make me bury my brother.

One day you will have to face it
all the hate and faith you misplaced it.
Bullets spray shred red rays right through it
when you finally make me do it.

Please don’t make me bury my brother
Soft dirt moved to fully cover the
dried brown ground they put us all under.
Why do I have to bury you my brother?

my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.

and time did
the goodly job
and time did
it with a timely fob
and time did
what time does so well
and time did
ring the fated bell
and time did
prove it was no fool
and time did
work as a precise tool

I wonder often which side
Of the coin I am on,
The magnificent irony of God
For giving me words;

I am the lightless eyes that see
From the dark what is leftover
From a library of dreams that
Seem dimly lit longing to be.....

Each stanza I vainly write,
Or are they written already,
Insensible scribblings wondering
If I am the poem or the poet,

A book of sonnet infinite,
Inaccessible rhymed schemes
Prewrit as the lost manuscripts
Of Alexandria lost to fire,

I live among the metaphorical,
Gardens of verbs and fountains
Of nouns, the blind word speaks
All that is seen.

Librarian of my days,
The the form is free I believe,
The cosmic universe in which
I write call to me in words,

Who am I?
The poem or the poet,
The twilight of my days have
Come to wonder what's real,

The delectable world I watch,
The words feed into me,
I realise I am a poet
Living inside the poem.