Half-smoked, hand rolled cigarette stick,
my body says I need that fix.
Just as the filter tip hits my lip,
the lighter flicks.

The flame ignites, the paper burns,
smoke's drawn in by sinful years,
inside the lungs it twists and turns,
unveiling a message oh so stern.

A moment's pass and I'm down to the ****
as Salvation's door is quietly shut,
a dizzy feeling erupts in the gut
and I find myself stuck in the same old rut.

From Dover was born Brian David,
And our language, though foul, sill he treasu'red,
  So with wit he did spit
    the quirkiest quips
And that old wretch called English was saved!

The poet writes at night
  to expose with eloquence, distress
In this frenzy of mad delight
  is discovered this poor fool's mess

This is no mark of glory
  nor does it beckon any fame
For, 'tis naught but a story
  or pride wrapped up in shame

The poet writes at dawn
  in the midst of early morning hues
The sunlight's rays do shine upon
  this page, and eyes of few

Who reads these words,
  who dares to gaze?
What quest begets such query?

What virtue is seen,
  behind the haze
Of the poet's impassioned fury?

The poet writes,
  the world listens

Ideas and plights,
  in ink do glisten

Anew, the day wakes up the world
  but there is no blank slate
For, we find new problems scribbled
  to solve them, this is fate

Do you recall early autumn's soft breeze?
  The rustling trees, or the warm colored leaves?

Do you recall the maniacal joy
  of falling in love with a boy?

Do you recall the twisting and twirling?
  Emotions unfurling, or toes as they're curling?

Do you recall the winter's harsh winds?
  The storms that you heard, those tears you endured?

Do you recall the fantastical pain
  of a fairytale embellished by stain?

Do you recall, from courage, a whimper?
  Though your heartbeat sank limper, to your soul's growth 'twas no hinder.

Turning madness to method,
     with each little lesson,
the tools of the trade, they are taught.

Most students absorb it,
     Though a few do abhor it
preferring their own methods wrought.

The soul of the child,
     tuned to the call of the wild
listens for thunder, a spark.

Though some grow up and follow
     a calling so hollow
a few still do follow the Lark.

Hark! This ode is for those,
     whose minds are exposed
to each streaming glint of the Sun.

So may we furnish with care,
     and nourish minds where
we see present a passion for fun.

Lounging on the porch steps of Dylan's old--
Riding the wind, trying to catch a drift home
Waitin' for the moment when all the dust gets blown
Down in the ground, mixin' around, never to be found
History is hidden even from the cunning
of the Fox and the Hound

The crumbled past is unwritten as the future
Just waiting for the master to piece it together
Every moment holds clues of what to do
of what there is to be done
and what there is that was done

So fire the gun and have some fun
Let the lead fly leaving ripples in the sky
Dissipating, as time blows by

These gusts give life to our strife
The tension of lust
Bends in its motion
back and forth
the instrumentation of accumulation

Sploosh!
An interweaving stream of fluid burgundy falls fast
Slipping from the tip of this crystal clear glass
Flowing down through gravity 'till it makes contact with the exquisite white spongy strings
strung together for the sole purpose of sale.

"Shoot!"
She exclaims
As she seeks to supplement a spill with her own soul
not noticing that neither wine nor bleach
stop the spinning cycle from spiraling down
southbound