I like to write
To write and rhyme
Rhyme and chime
Perhaps all the time.

Does that grate on your teeth?
Does it make you feel mad?
”This is not poetry!
It's awfully sad.”

Let these few lines try to explain,
Though its highly uninformed
And certainly quite lame.



Not long ago;
Rough times struck body and soul,
Drowning in black with no end or goal.

Turned to a friend
shaped like a stick,
Turned to the pen
to steer clear of the grit.

For it helped to transcribe these feelings inside,
To see how they feel after leaving the quill.

Starting this journey
started to learn
Felt the world crumble
That deep cutting burn.

For rhyming was for children
Their crayons and toys.
Rhymes for adults?
That's for ****** men and their groins.

What to do?!

A performer I was never born,
An education on literature was never adorned.
Only to make rhymes is all that formed.

It starts at the beginning
Takes us right through
With the intent to run smoothly
Never slowing in goo.

Brings forth creativity
Helps ease some pain.
Steers the ship of emotion:
Through hail,
Through rain.

This may sound childish,
Simple for some.
That just may leave me the only one having fun.



Thank you for making it to the conclusion,
I don't know how you made it through all the confusion.

How much time can pass with nothing being done
How much time can pass without feeling shunned
How much time can pass without a sun
How much time can pass without feeling glum

How much time will pass before we are through
How much time will pass before the sky turns blue
How much time will pass before tears anew
How much time will pass before healing is true

Time will only tell what you've done to yourself
Time will only tell if your heart still cries for help
Time will only tell what you make of this fight
In the path we all walk will you walk with no light?

Swimming some call it but it’s more like a float
Living some call it but there’s really no hope
“It is what it is” others might say.
But to me you see, it’s just a regular day.

One thing is a constant a never ending stream,
Every human is destined for that very same dream.
The dream of nothing, that dark hollow pool,
Pain and joy equal to a stool.

“There’s a light at the end” the words pompously said.
But the end is only darkness, darkness now, darkness then.

Don’t judge the float or the loss of hope.
That fantasy, that swim of life,
Is all the same pie just another slice.
For the stream it keeps flowing, flowing all night
To the same destination of the dream without light.