How young is she?
Looks like twenty,
but could be sixteen.
Says things as if she's thirty,
but listens to music like she's not.
She's sensual, yet innocent.
Drives and drinks;
doesn't do a good job of either.
Dances freely like a child,
but worries about things
like a teenager.
I don't know her,
but I am intrigued by her innocence.
She says she wants to dance with me,
I tell her no
and leave.
Still a thought lingers,
how young is she?

"No I don't like that,
But I do like this.
But, it cost too much.
No, that one is too big,
huh?
That one is too small!
-I guess that one works,
but do you have anything
a bit darker than this?
Oh, it's all you have...
Alright, I guess this works,
but wait, what about that one!

The youth
has gone away.

Only lines
of fun stay.

When I smile
they go astray.

Green smudge
stains
the purple shirt.
The heart nonstop,
and the night uncertain.
The three legged cat searches
for his owner,
and I search for sleep.

Mid-day beers taste best alone.
tv off, windows open
and the **** dog asleep.
Another day halfway gone
and why hang around,
why linger on?
Seen it all before,
days grown bored.
The night gets music and lights,
alcohol and ****,
who could bore of this?

This mind,
this ability to create,
and study and learn
and teach,
this is the tool which harms us.
This mumbling about meaning,
this world devoid of purpose,
the world from which it sprung.
-the struggle at it's root
and so the Absurd is born.

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.