How long the minutes seem
Sitting in the stream
Of thoughts going rotten
Of ideas long forgotten

My stomach is rumbling
But my hand just keeps bumbling
Along the lines of the paper
Until the rhymes start to taper

But the genius I must ration
Because my mind is lost in some other nation
Somewhere deep inside my head
For all I know it is dead

I can’t seem to do the assignment
Something is wrong with the alignment
Of me in this school of strife
And the position I’m in for the rest of my life

For some unfathomable reason
I feel as though I’m just breezin’
Through these hours upon hours of classes
Time going slower than molasses

But I have to drudge through it
Even though I want to say ***** IT
Because I’m bored out of my skull
But with out it my life would even more dull

At the end of the day, much has been done
Some of it work, and some of it fun
But now is the time to lie down and sleep
Into my head all thoughts seem to seep

Abundant energy I have found
Enough to get up, to leap, to bound
But due to the time, to my bed I’m confined
And to all possible dreams I remain blind

As I lie I review my day
Thinking of things in a different way
But I do not tarry, quickly I move on
To days that are both short and long gone

Then I think of things not yet done
Making plans that seem to be jumping the gun
All this runs in circles through my head
As I shift uncomfortably in my bed

Soon I realize that part of what discomforts me
Is that you are not as close as I would like you to be
In fact I wish you were here to be a calming presence
To settle my brain, to give my breathing a gentle cadence

Were you here in my arms I know I would sleep
For I would have my love, as you have mine to keep
I would hold you close as if to ward off theft
Of you from my life, which would leave me bereft

Thank god I still have you in my life
Yet I am alone through this strife
All this thinking and wishing, leaves me feeling alone
For it all comes to nothing, but the emptiness has grown

Though all this I’m just trying to say
I love you, and miss you, and can’t sleep by the way
And this poem was written and thoroughly refined
By the errant thoughts of this restless mind

I never thought of laundry
in such a light as this.

A chore, no more no less.

Never this dark seductive mistress.
Never this muse that sparks fire.
Never this exciting event.

But I guess I never thought of laundry.
No, loading the washer and dryer
is rarely on my mind.

It is the slavery of folding
to me raises a heavy hand.
'Tis with a dark heart I hear
the ill fated buzz of the dryer
calling me into line.

The bucket line of one.
Hauling load after load
to be dumped in a sweet
smelling heap, piling higher
with wrinkles and creases.

I do not know why
I am tormented by folding
I can only hope
I can reach the bottom of the pile.
For while I've been writing
I've been folding all the while.

I’m there in the end,
For the rest I’m around the bend
Ultimately feared by all
For I appear at their lowest point
Yet even more by those who fall.
Yet to some I seem to anoint
The ultimate pain reliever
For all but the most staunch believer
In life and its splendor
For those who love and are tender
Yet eventually I’m there
To pluck you from living
Like an inconvenient hair.
Yet for as many as I can I am forgiving,
But who ever heard
Of a cloaked one who could
Save those who have no need
To lie in the dust and bleed.
I hope for your sake
You aren't soon in my sight,
For I am no fake
I’m there to block out the light.
The pale rider has compassion
And he’ll save your life in a different fashion

I'm here again. Just laying here. Like I was yesterday and will be tomorrow. The couch is comfy, as is the computer chair. For I switch every once in a while to see if I received a message. I probably have things to do and will probably get around to them. But for now I'm here again. Just laying here. Like i was yesterday and will be tomorrow.

Here I lie in the silence of the clock
Sitting there without a tick or a tock
What gives it the right to flick away my life
So rich yet so full of strife

Here I lie in the quiet of the night
Not giving an inch in the fight
So cold in the darkness around my bed
Yet I’m roasting so I know I ain’t dead

All I can see is the dripping of time
All I can do is sit here and rhyme
It’s not my fault I can’t sleep
I know in the morning it’ll make me a creep

All of the time wasted doing diddly squat
Is more of my life that is down and shot
I can’t help that I like to sleep in
I try and try but I can’t seem to win

Even with coffee to get me through the day with a fight
Later I’ll still be here staring into the night
Even with all the fun that God pokes
It’s easy to laugh at life’s little jokes

I know it’ll happen to me what happened to the pope
The fact it’s not here gives me some hope
That I’ll live a full life and get some sleep
But as it is said, words are cheap

Sometimes I get a thinkin’
About all in life that’s stinkin’
And yet at other times
I start spewing out rhymes

Some parts cease to make sense
But they serve as emotional vents
For my feelings on the day
That have been held at bay

Yet to think I could compress
All of my stress
Into a few simple lines
People must be out of their minds

Yet that ain’t what this is about
This isn’t a way to shout
For help or attention
Its just here to mention

Anything in my head
From baked beans to bread
Or a man without a clue
To why he’s coughing up glue

It could be about
An animal’s snout
Or maybe sometimes I think
About the color pink

Perhaps there was a thought
About a battle that was fought
Between a chair and a lamp
And a fat kid at camp

Maybe there’s a story
All ****** and gory
Of an accidental chop
Taking the head of a fop

And there’s the Grim Reaper
Taking the soul of a sleeper
Who wakes up to find
He has retained his mind

I could write like this ‘til the end of time
About Bigfoot or cupcakes or the hind of a mime
But eventually I’ll cease
And maybe then I’ll find peace

For anything out of my imagination
Could have laid the foundation
For these things I have penned
And thusly I finish with a simple

The End

Here he comes again. He sits here for hours just plugging away at the keys. Typing and typing and typing. He is blind to the facts. He is making friends with people he will never know, while his friends in his life slowly slip away. Further than the ones currently offline. He listens to the comings and goings of his online life, drowning out the people around him. He is blind, but i can see, the life he is abandoning, instead to live though me.

Don't take my picture
it will steal my soul.
But the snapshot is taken
despite what was said.
And up high on a shelf
it in mute witness stands
to the flow of life
in the household.
Or as others before it
it is tossed in a box
forever entombed
fleeting glimpses of light.
Albums and scrapbooks
adorn it with cheer
to be shown off to many
but few really care.
Trapped in wallets
it sits grimy and smeared
buddied up with George.
Living in fear of a camera
afraid it will take you away.
For our time here is short
as the shutter flies
Don't take my picture
it will steal your soul.

Starlight, Starbright, first star I see tonight...
We have all heard the rhymes,
But sometimes the rhymes are a distraction
Limiting ones vision to a single infinitesimal celestial speck
That we perceived to look upon first
When the whole sky has been opened as if to greet us
And show unto us the mysteries of the universe
If only we know how to read the scrambled brail that are the stars
To listen to the Morse code that the twinkling lights use to signal us all
He who cannot look at the night sky and smile to himself
Cannot be said to enjoy life
For all that is life is contained in the celestial, ethereal bodies
Not foreordained paths but freedom of will,
Life is just the playing field for free will
To determine our eternal resting place
Whether it be Chaos or something a bit more orderly
Me?...I’ve got money on Chaos

Nowhere does it say
a poem must rhyme,
it helps with rhythm
but there is no need.
as I stare at the page
they run through my head
unwilling, unwanted
washed up, and overused
tattered and bruised,
it cant be helped.

While most force rhymes
into their places
to make a poem work
"like its supposed to"
I can't help but see
that just produces drivel
that can't be called poetry.

My rhymes come unbidden
as if they were hidden
inside somewhere
only to come out
into the glare
of critics who doubt
the power of the rhyme,
a poetical crime.

The rhyme is a tool
to be used as seen fit
doesn't matter if it's cool
or the poet's a twit
sometimes it's weak
sometimes it slides
but give it a tweak
and feel how it rides.

Rhyme isn't a necessity
but it works
and helps me be a poet
and always will I know it

Staring up at the sky
Everything starts to swirl
Time, space, reality even…
All flowing and growing into this one moment

Staring at the stars it all becomes clear
All what, I don’t know
But its become so clear
Transparent, invisible even
It’s the clarity of confusion

Its so late and yet so early
In the morning and in life
My outlook and future are bright
Even if I am so buggeringly oblivious
But I am not worried
Just enjoying the moment

I stand and I spin
Trying to absorb it all
Then slow to a stop
Facing away from my home
And I run, run and fly

But I quickly sputter to a stop
To what do I fly?
From what do I run?
Nothing…
In either direction there is nothing

I trudge my way home
I pick up my seat to head back inside
But I glance again at the sky
And am smiling anew
For it is still there
In its beauty and glory it has stayed me through this

As I turn to go in
Still grinning like a fool
I come to realize a few simple truths
And the knowledge I knew them all along

I know nothing
The future is coming
Be happy and have fun
For **** happens
But life is good