I heard silence in the cobwebs
of your soul
while everything else walked
as if lost
inside of the belief
that all you see is black and white.  
Then, I watched you crawl in search of truth
among faces with eyes
that held the illusion of everything
you think you want in life.

Your fingertips seem to know more
about your emotions
than your tears do
because you touch each hurt
your heart mentions
until they bleed.
I watch you pause,
and look over your shoulder
for yesterday
almost as if you wish
it would never leave.

I wonder if you will ever learn
how simple
the feel of your own skin
could be
if you would just not let anger write its name
on your walls carelessly.  
Perhaps then, you could see the sunlight
of a brand new day
and accept the shades of gray
that color me.

The houses are all asleep
As in a waking dream I pass
At night my mind is dark

Knowing not what eyes have seen
The farce of life
Winds, twists and streams.

I am exhaustion;
Forever awake,
Ever trapped by sleep.

The question is not of how
Or when to rest.
But why, when I do, I cannot.

He is clever, this thief of dreams
He plunders, he plows
Then leaves to rot my sleep.

Awaiting, forever lurking,
Defending his feast
The beast would eat
my eyelids if he could.


I am insomnia,
Awake in the nightmare
Afraid of the dark.

some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and ****** and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.