Fire away Fire away
Live for a minute.
Live for a day.
Love when it's lost
Die when it's found.
A purposeful prose
Is all that it costs.
My heart doth confound
With that red bright rose.
Fire away, Fire away

I cannot speak, I cannot write
I fear that you won't end my plight.
The charity of your kiss
Is all that I will truly miss.

Tonight I go, tonight I stay
My sovereignty has gone away.
For while my treach'rous tounge's at bay,
I find myself to be your slave.

I am a dreamer.
I am a thought.
Industrious steamer,
I'm certainly not.
I care too much
For ideas and such.
For I am a dreamer.
I am a thought.

You were an alcoholic,
And I was just another bottle.

Maybe you won't break
The next bottle you drink from.

I doubt it, though.
You will drink and break until you wobble.

You are an alcoholic,
And I let myself forget it.

Fire is rising.
I, engulfed by flames of passion,
Succumb to tongues of fire
I was burned by a remorseless liar
And have since turned some what ashen,
It matters not. Fire is rising.

Flying by the seat of my pants.
Writing and typing a glorious dance.
Loving and living in lines on a page.
Happy and saddened and uncontrolled rage.

Writing with no message.
Breathing life where oughtn't be.
Just typing and writing by the seat of my pants.
Waltzing about without music to dance.

Six lines can say more than six pages.
But authors and poets have dissimilar wages.
Why?