The verge of nightly solitude brings ghostly characters in my room,
The glow of moon and whirl of wind breathes open kindle gloom,
and forth from forward unto morning prove to me the sanctum sun,
To vast and winding grassy roads my legs do signal me
Come my love, to the edge of night-
The cool and hollow air,
Come with me and leave me, watch as I stride forth,
Into wild
and twisting seas

So many times I have missed this train
I get to the station just as it pulls away
Leaving me stranded here on rusty tracks
Not sure if it'll ever be back

In the distance I hear the whistle blow
Of the thoughts I once had that I used to know
Holding the tickets that I earlier bought
Now to the long gone Train of Thought

Can't help but think of the times that I've ignored
The conductor as he cries out all aboard
I always seem to be left behind
As the Train of Thought pulls off down the line

It is He who turned the words that echoed through walls of built up ego into towers of strength made of faith and prayer, obedience and consciousness – the best architecture knew I needed a blueprint that wasn’t covered in mustard coloured stains and red pen marks that led to nowhere good
2. It is He who untangled the blackening shackles from ties to this sticky, messy mirage of a world entwined to these wrists and instead taught to braid ladders to the heavens on its way to freedom which looks like His love, love that is eternity and eternity that isn’t an illusion; it’s a vision
3. It is He who, through every turn, slip and fault, stayed closer than the jugular vein and fished the despair right out of this muddled pond the colour of dust and rusting metals, teaching to swim and thank for the air filled lungs taken for granted even when I'm drowning, the water became clearer and the air cleaner and He still held His hand out, better than a lifeguard, He’s a guard for life
4. And now I'm trying to find another way to Him in these blessed nights to heal this aching splintered heart and solid iron fists made from fires only the roughest wood could spark up; in His name does the stomach starve so the soul can feed, where the toughest times are handled with sincerity, everyone becomes family, and strength is found underneath His love, overtop the rest of the world

I'm wearing dead man's underwear
I ask what's wrong with that
Something you see they no longer need
Where they now are at

From Jockey's whitey tighties
To boxers by the score
Don't much matter to me
What this dead man wore

With the right amount of detergent
The proper amount of bleach
Like I said four lines back
Don't matter much to me

Now please don't rush to judgement
Or my life preconceive
We all have our different ways
Of carrying on their memories

Me...I just do it in dead man's briefs

im sitting here
on a computer
writing something trying to impress other people
but all im doing is wasting time
instead i could be working
could be finding a cure for cancer
but instead im wasting time
writing on a website
where my works
not even the decent ones will get published
wasting my time
and yours
and even more as you continue to read

when she walked away
the tears could not be stopped
she would never return
my heart would be so lost
forever and a day
the depression in my heart
was enough to make
even the devil cry
a flaming tear exited his eye
for even he knew
there was no stronger a bond
than the love between her and I

Love is but the **** of two minds, yet what is joy?
Joy is but the  slaughter of pain which is the reality
Life and death remain the duality but the contraction and the most real delusion all shall know
beyond logic is chaos but chaos is simply defused logic
Stare aimlessly into the nothing that is you and the nothing that is I
We are both the same person I am to you as you are to I
He is to she what she is to he
Our concepts are but smoke in the wind and signify nothing
Bloodshed is our purest form of expression a brutal honesty which is the only real part of our nature
but what is artifical?
The art of ignorance is the most difficult course to master taking generations to achieve
Intellect is the pillow that smothers you as a new born baby in your crib
All who want you hate you and all that Hate you love you with all the kindness in the world
Your weak and made to be destroyed but that is the greatest mercy all shall know
Decay further into nothing your true state and put behind the delusion of all that is knoweldge
You are nothing as am I
Nothing is everything even the flicker of a dying flame carried upon angels wings
A lucky bullet strikes the world at exactly midnight and all that is will be no more but a lingering shadow in a universe that doesn't exist
Every second that passes until the fatal blow is an eternity in the eyes of us mortals
What is mankind but a collection of bactieria inside of an amphibians pupil

Twilight mornings remind me of coffee tables and study notes
Sometimes I smell spray paint through open windows,
Even on the nights I ditch my cans for insanity
Breakfast-less mornings are recipes for undone laundry
And unturned plant leaves and un-salted tears
One morning, the porch’s railings crumbled in my hands
And fell over on the splattered rug sitting outside the green door
That I stumbled over and waited for fresh milk deliveries on
I find unlit cigarettes on the windowsill that taught me patience
And tornados in a mind that is too beautiful for damaged thoughts
I press petals over open cuts that never get the chance to bleed
And ice the bruises that refuse to turn green
But beside laptop keys that spell out what they know
I hit dlt over and over again; that’s what I know
The only other thing besides surety strung on tree branches
Are orange leaves sharp suns coated in silver
The shark tooth hanging from a string around my neck
Was only a metaphor that caused trouble

She caught him out in the shed
Like a thief
Stealing a moment of pain
Wracked by sobs and pouring out tears
Over small and faded pink canvas shoes
The shoes had supplanted his purpose
Sapped his intent
They made his tools indifferent
And uncaring
Turned them into nothing more
Than rusting steel and hanging shapes
Outlined on musty pegboard
That meant nothing
Nothing at all
Until her small and gentle hands touched him
And in shame
He dried his eyes
And put the shoes away
Back in their box on the shelf
And became a man again
Lived again
And worked again
In his shed full of tools