another ink blotch,
a sentiment in darkness,
timeless.
yet, one you forgot.
just a speck
trying to sound off.
a heart- restless,
learning to let go.
another drip of pen onto paper
and then,
type it up so (they) can murmur
and lie aloud again.

Longing once more,
I guess if you’re good at it…
Still, it is a tiresome state,
To stare into the distance, to wait.
But, if you can pull it off,
Naturally, with the proper gestures
It is a sight to behold.
A bored spectator in a sea of roars.

From the comfort of despair,
The tranquility of loneliness.
The aches,
Those thorns on flesh,
Bare.
It stems from here.
Keep your pity,
Calm the fright
And awake your intuition.
Silence
I can stand it,
Though not easily;
Won’t you pretend to care?

Perhaps fearing tranquility,
the quiet calm which is never here;
I stopped drinking beer,
only whiskey
or *** from now on.

less of a gut
and better poems or maybe not,
but it sure feels different.
looked up for a minute
and new words descend;

Tears, smiles
and laughter
along with fingers
pointing and eyes
with much intrigue- staring.

there we sat on a hammock
on a windy autumn night.
sharing a cigarette,
laughing at old jokes
and for a moment
lucid minds prevailed.
there in that uneventful, quiet night
and engaging in that common pleasure,
time hung back
and death was silent.
then as we took in our final drags
the moment passed.

The lights on the street are dimmed
As if shrinking to the cold.
This winter brittles the bones of the old
And tightens the skin of the young.
-Forgetting himself and any grand illusions,
Whether holy or earthly influenced;
With a smile upon his weary face.
Accepting all null and void resolutions.
Looking out his window, seeing the passersby below;
The young and old, couples and solitary figures, sheepish and bold…
His heart is now easily content
As he sees himself in them.

doubts
no longer
whisper,
but shout!
aged
stained
glass
-promises time forgot.
like the plucking of a rose,
death follows
always quiet,
it can wait
till the end of your speech.