Frequent?    
                         Yes.
      The times        I                am
                      alone.
Writing,
       ­  my fleeting feelings.
My pugnant  emotions.

Thinking     of     new      ways,...
          Dreaming     up      old         things...
If,....        Only,......      
This pen could Scream!..  
                      Reasons        I           Am....

                             ME?

As      I       am,...
         caught up,
                       drawn in,
again     and     again,...
                           and        again,...
                                            ­             and?..
                         Again.

Me.                        Unexplained.

his is my conception flawed
most Patina proned
the imperfects,
                                     they
                     fragment
       become
at its surface
       wanting
life's reasons
                                     cracks
                   chaffe
of this
        creation and eternal question
the layers meaningless therein
the death of sunlight
setting perfected
another day
to feed tomorrows imagination
much
         displayed in each rotten liars face
covered over some past
smothering and building above
and fragrant dreams
should fuel brashness misdirected
purpose that
             for all it is
be it found to be lacking
                 it bears the knowledge gap
famed no known muse
or compostion worthy
notedly proportional whites and
other shades, emotionless
calming,
the sediment settles
to touch the muddy surface
consideringly well intended
another day,
         another to shine
less than
                        perfect
is          
        and those
that demand
a concept placed uncertain
determined and truthfully in the rught
hopefully atleast as to face
forced gazes
                    accusatiions
                              a reflection
my face
              that
looks back
            upon one


                               uwanted.