I still miss you
Even though I know I shouldn't
Your smile haunts me
Every time I turn the radio on

My brother asked me why
Some hours late after work
I sit in the cooling car, stars scattered like starbursts above
and let soft notes
Drift out from the cracks in the
Frame and I do not tell him
It is because I find you
In late night songs played dull and lonely
I find you in the drifting melodies
That hold my heavy head
And heart space where the beats echo
Faintly because there is only
Emptiness left
I find you in lyrics written by artists who have been broken in the same way
Only into different pieces.
I do not tell him it is my moment of weakness
Of loss
Of anger
Of hurt

I do not tell him
It is my way of letting you go
Each tear a memory released
Each note a whispered kiss blown
To the autumn wind
Each verse the broken promises turned to dust for the shadows to eat
Each song my way of moving on

I do not tell him
I just listen until dawn

Let me be easy
to let me rest my head and close my eyes.
Let me be at peace
with the world and even myself.
Let my weary soul rest.
May the demons sleep tonight.

                                       By Phil Roberts

I had received dozens of rejection letters most I can imagine the reactions these ******* yuppie ******* reading were thinking while saying to themselves .
Jesus ******* Christ I'm glad this guy doesn't live near by.

They hated writers yet they made there living off them .
Much like teachers except with a far better income and much better high dollar vices .

I worked my *** off they sat on there's and decided what was in .
I still read them trying to maintain my buzz and not slip into a coma
from the ******* they deemed worthy.

I was on my second drink when the I read the words yet still like seeing a car accident in front of your very own eyes I could not believe what the **** I was reading .

It wasn't so much the article it was who was in it.
I had been writing long enough to learn one thing try your best to avoid
other so called writers .

And there he was  quoted with a fake ******* age was a ******* who was neither a writer or in my thoughts anything more than a pile of dog **** by the highway .

I don't need to mention his name hell being mentioned in any forum was more ego stroking than the ******* deserved.
But it was then I truly knew the New Yorker had went from high class rag to street level ***** selling her *** to anyone with the change .

Old ******* was there about twelve years younger and in his full out of his gourd glory.
I can imagine the interview one soulless **** stain talking to another .
Speaking on something he could not even do himself .
******* write!

I was a drunk a ******* who ran his mouth and dared anyone to try to shut it.
I was a lot of things but no matter how others viewed me I was always
a writer .

I lived it, Breathed it  paid my dues fifteen times over .
Yeah it bit my *** to see a overrated wind bag featured in a rag truly great writers had struggled  to be published in.

It showed you the great decline the social media madness great writing was no longer a requirement skill wasn't needed either .
It was all superficial ******* smoke and mirrors and a nice *** .

I took another drink picked up the revolver stuck it to my head
pulled the trigger .
Nothing this time!
Looks like id live another day.

I'd love to sit at table over a few drinks play a relaxing game of Russian roulette with the ******* I'm writing about.
I wonder would he speak so boldly in front of another man
or simply **** his pants and cry like a modern  overrated
so called artist.

Yeah I was passionate with my hate .
I was anything but a modern writer and anyone sitting across
from me better dam sure know I didn't play games .

Well least not any that were safe .

I stopped reading the article when a friend called .
Hey you read that article on you know who?
Yeah I replied just finished it.

What did you think?
Well least when you run out of toilet paper you got something to wide your *** with .

My friend laughed .
You know your not right they said still laughing.
Yeah I said looking at the gun still on the table.

You truly don't have a clue.

I existed in night chasing those hours until the dawn.
Embraced in the depths of insanity the plague breaths a harsh
taste left bitter in the wind .

Tortured by days we follow what asks nothing.
She moved a haunting scene in the chaos .
How often we desire what will destroy us so very easily.

Frost to the rose a death in the spite of life
Often we consume with no care to the aftermath .
Do the ignorant see more only to turn a blind eye than those who yearn?

And you can trace my steps but never walk the same path.
As I simply never desired to know another's it will only be a moment but the scars remain.


Its never a test for the game was ******* to begin with .
They will never grasp the life beyond the sunset can we simply part
and pretend.

Understanding is sympathy I do not need.
This ride alone is beyond its view and something far more toxic
then I ever care to share .

The dawn is almost here so I bid you farewell.
This is my existence a shipwreck somewhere invisible  from the shores view .

You cannot play with the page for it cares for none and asks all .
A ***** for the thoughts it leaves just the same .

Perfectly vacant was the sunsets view .

my pets are  
my Labrador is
stupid sweet
and when she got loose last time
she had a dog on her *** and one on her head
just going to town
I need to get her spayed:
why hell don't they have a  pill for that?
And I have three young ******* cats
that Missy the Lab still lets nurse on her
all with different personalities
one is calm but playful
and loves cuddling
nothing bothers her
one is super excitable
running from table to tv to chair
in pursuit of air constantly
the other is studious
just sits there watching it all
I expect her to give a dissertation soon
on cat and dog and human habits
I call her
Freud.
I haven't named  the other two.

It's definitely still in here
Though I've not seen it for a while
It'll be in a corner somewhere
Where the light doesn't reach
But I never did get rid of it
Though I've done nothing
As a result of it lately
The thing is still integral
To my living reality
The wildness within me
Has never left
It's in a corner somewhere

                                           By Phil Roberts

I am not afraid of the storm.
Or of the wildness of the winds.

I am not afraid of the darkness.
Even my nightmares
Have little power to frighten
Any more.

I am not afraid to die.
There is very little mystery left.

what is left?
You may be wondering

that may be a conversation
For another day