small cheap rooms where you walk
down the hall to the
bathroom can seem romantic to
a young writer.
even the rejection slips are
amusing because you are sure that
you are
one of the best.

but while sitting there
looking across the room
at the portable typer
waiting for you on the table
you are really
in a sense
insane

as you wait for
one more night to arrive to sit and
type Immortal Words--but now you
just sit and think about it
on your first afternoon in a strange city.

looking over at the door you
almost
expect a beautiful woman to walk in.

being young
helps get you through
many senseless and terrible
days.

being old
does
too.

When you ask of me, why poetry
I'm not sure you understand
That it's the center of my universe
The very depth of who I am

The molecules in the air I breath
Oxygen pulsing through the veins
The storm brewing beneath the surface
The pounding of the rain

It's the timeless anticipation
Of the thought that's yet to come
The tearing open of life's seam
The beating of the drum

The first peak of the desert flower
When it feels the gentle touch of spring
The smile in the eyes of a child
And all the joy it brings

The in and out of the tide
In the pulling of the waves
When you ask of me, why poetry
What more is there to say

Ocean waves washing up dead bodies
on the shores inside my mind.

The distant fear of storm clouds rolling in
obscuring the future of everything.

Internal dialogue screams, demeaning
roaring, beating like trees in the wind.

“Sure you have it all together now, but
don’t forget how easy it could be to fall!”

Fear inside remains stronger than me,
don’t be fooled by the placid exterior seen.

This is the fault of my mind’s own demise,
the storm never warns when it begins brewing.

The hurricane destroys windows and doors
leaving me emaciated on the barren floor.

Anorexia starts by starving the soul
I’m trying not to dig up old bones.