tippy toeing around once more,
still all that fails is true
and lies are grand for while,
until, always until.
-alone isn't always solitude
or lonely,
but it is.
I see the words in the air
and when I reach,
they scatter.
I'm keeping quiet
and very still,
maybe something will happen,
or someone might come in and talk
and I can put the pen down
and admit it's useless.

sunlight blankets the room,
eyes protest
and soon
the heart awakens the aching chest.
this life i've been lent
make sense with you.
time misspent;
even lies sound true.
these arms find purpose,
lips evoke passion
and fingers in motion
bring about the prose.

whiskey helps,
but i can go without.
feeling it all
and no,
I am not lost
-not coming undone.

a line made of gold
and ink,
a sentiment floats
as it all sinks in.
hide, run or stay;
I'll love you either way.

It all stemmed from some longing,
he thought.
Something missing
or was never there
to begin with.
Either way this led to the prose
ans so there was no choice;
no exercise of will really,
but rather a duty.
-If other eyes peeked at the work,
then so be it!
For once committed to paper,
the work was done
and so was he.

The streets are empty,
lights are dim
and it is a cold night in New York.
Queens is usually much more alive,
but not tonight.
There's a feeling in the air,
felt by those still awake;
someone somewhere
has made
a grave mistake.

They come and go
these passions of the flesh.
Eyes of green,
brown and gray.
Near the big blue
they all look the same.
In the end
it's the ocean
and I
which remain.

Unaware of these scars
for they are beneath the skin.
The air of radiance and joy;
a facade,
one that fools even I.
Still, there's no escaping the night;
the lonesome quiet,
the heart's drumming,
the mind racing,
igniting a riot.
No calm by the sea
or by city light,
by white sand
or gray concrete.
This visceral yearning
will not cease.