Go north,
into Frost’s domain.
Comparing your soul,
and walk the same path.
Stomp the ground,
to make it real.
Walk in the wood,
in the grass and snow.
Follow the steps,
learned from the past.
Diverge in the thicket,
and follow your heart.

How did you do it?
Will I have to die to?

These are wounds
piled on my desk.
They bleed for
attention and ink.

These are nameless,
kept away from view.
******* children,
of my quill.

Urchins in rags,
unkept and unfinished.
They haunt my dwelling,
as beggars do.

They are dismembered,
without proper structure.
Perhaps faceless,
void of identity.

Give them names,
would equate their freedom.
Label them,
and they shall see the sun.

Or not,
and leave them,
as they are.

Untitled.

You are a garden,
make the promise,
to feed yourself.
Tend your bed.

Surround yourself,
with fertile nourishment.
Swallow in the rays,
of positive energy.

Know what you are not.  
Eliminate the weeds,
the friends and blood,
stealing what gives you life,
what makes you tick.

Know your companions.
Grow and deepen,
your roots with them.
Share the glorious light.

Open your palms, leaves,
to yourself.
Grow, rise, and promise,

to reach to the sky.

Drawing pictures,
is graphite make-believe.
You can bring life,
or darkness.
Are you god?
Do you have control?
Scribbles, judgments,
of squares, circles
and unhappy faces.
Crumble up,
the paper tightly.
Throw away, let go.

Maybe its time,
To start over.

To those who ache,
rusted by love.
Breathe.

When you are standing,
shinny and new.
Breathe.

When you are ready,
scramble the sharp rocks.
And Breathe.

When you find yourself,
Tell yourself to,
breathe.

Find the breathe of you,
and keep breathing.

Veins of sheets,
entangle us.
She tells me,
without sound.

Without pause,
she speaks,
in the backseat,
under frosty moonlight.

She feels me,
in blurry crowds
and through
crisp empty roads.

Follow her voice,
through mornings
painted gray.
She tells me.

Smiles with her eyes,
it's audible,
almost divine,
she glows.

She lets her hair down,
a breath of gold,
sweet and comforting.
You’re safe.

She is there,
solid as stone.
She is here,
for me.

Scribble,
Scribble.
The etchings,
of a dreamer.

Who's quill he,
quibbles with.

Grasping at an idea,
that he hydrates
with ink.

In wrathful vengeance,
he abuses parchment,
with a sharpened wood spear.

Drinking his creation,
tweaking the taste,
that's almost bitter.

Slash, ****,
cross out.
He is vexed,
about the ending…