I cant do this anymore
words no longer flow
the mind is now an empty place
the words no longer flow

I loved to write poetic verse
but recently I've lost my nerve
because
the words no longer flow

I used to write of birds and flowers
of time spent in tranquil hours
Writing of the spume capped waves
writing of the things I love
but the words no longer flow

I've had my ups had my downs
been serious been the clown
but now it all has got to stop
because the words no longer flow

Till moons stop shinning
And suns stop rising
Till rivers stop flowing
And lakes stop going
Till rocks start dancing
And butterflies start singing
Till birds start rapping
And mice start shouting
Till roses stop growing
And fireflies stop glowing
Till the earth stops spinning
And my hearts stops beating
That's when I will stop loving
**YOU

When life gets u down just remember you are almost at the finish line,so never stop running

We've set a precedent:
Traded Bergdahl for five Terrorists...
The deal is done.

Questions hovering above and below...
How many loyal lives were lost
To bring a lone deserter back?

How many lives will go because
Five terrorists walked free?

Did Bergdahl set up the deal
To set a precedent
To set up a President?
Were the five men picked to trade
By Us or Them?
Who's running the show?
Who's to blame?
And Whom shall we say is calling
The shots, and who can say
How many lives were paid
For one who just deserts?

Incoming!

The road winds ahead
I think.
In truth,
I cannot with my human senses tell;
Thick fog and rain and dread...
This path might lead
To the bottom of a well
Or worse...to Hell.
But no, the way behind me led to Hell,
And I have turned my back,
Begun my pilgrim way.

What directions I can find
Point in the way I head,
And mired as I am,
I cannot stay
Nor stand and wait
Nor can I turn retreat...
Been there before...
There's nothing good to eat,
And nothing there
To give me peace,
So I press on.

Push on I must,
For I have heard
Somewhere high above me
An eagle cry,
The promise of a clearing sky,
A vantage point to find
If I have wings.

Who found he had
Nothing
To Say....

You read my poetry in an attempt to understand me
versus an attempt to read literature
or fiction
or art
So you pick apart each sentence
and each syllable
and each subject
and you try so hard to figure me out
You want to know what I was thinking when I wrote this poem
or that poem
but what that tells me is perhaps you aren't even reading them at all
Although what poets express comes from the debths of our creative closets and emotional state
you must still open up your mind and soak up the words for what they are
Not for who I am