He was driving down ******* Boulevard
He had killers in the car
He drove with a blank stare as the killers put their clips in their pistols
His soul was the color red stained with blood from all the murders he had ordered and committed
The car came to a stop
He pointed at a white house.

Written by Keith Edward Baucum

you are beautiful
but are you
art?

Sometimes I like to sit in the dark all
alone . In the silence of my room .
Listening to the thunder in my head
and
the flashing of my thoughts against
the walls of my past . Soaking in the
resolutions of the pouring down disdain .

a soft voice that can
sanitize a mind, and
that mirrors skin like linen,
hair flowing faster than
blood to her heart,
looking in her eyes
proves that cerulean skies
can walk on earth,
anxiety blurs the lines
of a perfectionist,
leaving reservations
in the minds of anyone
lucky enough to
grace tangibility and
her footsteps cohere,
with lips rarely touched
a godless man can feel them
in his fingertips when praying
to a god he doesn’t believe in.
      
                                       MJB

I killed my own thoughts
             to numb the torment.
Burying them in my field of dreams
             they resurrected and my
Night became nightmares of dead reflections.

What would I wish for?
What would I want?
To be whole again?
To be sane, or to not…
One more minute?
One more look?
To go back and do it over, do it by the book?
One more beer, just one more night?
What do we wish for when there’s no light?
To be with ease?
Just to do as I please, without worries or fears
There are no more years to feel guilty I missed
Just one more kiss?
Another touch, another hug?
Another day?
For friends not to go away?
What will I wish for?
What will I want?