it's quite sad, so sad

when afterthoughts don't count

lopsided in the mind



where fore thoughts do abound

it's like gazing intently

at those flat rainbow lollipops



what spins you round and round

emptying memories we've had

and new thoughts find

enough of you
and all of me

before letting go
this consider--
once posted, one
may thus wonder
is there a reader at the other end of this poem?
oh, sure there is

but the privilege
of knowing their thought process and journey
is theirs to keep
or to you share
at their behest
so now let’s see

enough from me
and now to you

droplets of honey--
your words varnish
my waking mind,
coaxing me to
leave all, behind

gone, but ever remaining
never learning
held, ever close but
never belonging
cradled light - metaphed demise

on a spring morning
melting, paraffin wax;
now a shadow of a
hand, held tight
in the deep of night

in the finality of this hour
as all of this shall disappear
while these broken words become clear
our dearest thoughts bloom like a flower
having been watered by many a tear
fear is but momentary, please don’t cower
spare a thought, plant seeds of good cheer
peer at what still may be for us here
so through ensuing years our hearts steer

I may not be

your cup of tea

but I am your

bottle of *** --

most definitely...

so ease up that grip:

Stop strangling my neck.



Let My liquid conflagration

scorch your lying condescension

again and again and again.... without fail.



If you but remember to be true

to what lurks deep within you

I will assail your doubts

And numb their fight,

Send insanity to flight.

No, I am not your cup of tea!

And more's the better for me!

an orange sat contentedly
or so it seemed to a quick eye
its skin glowed invitingly
reflected table top sheen
only to bring a belated sigh
when all at once it rolled
and rushed and crashed
on a cold polished marble floor

Is remorse a prison to the soul
the sole utterance of reproach
that if not to myself be True
the possible best in life accrue

what if regret creeps on the morning
a thief stalking the shadow of dawn
(re)fresh from bare motive drawing
crystal arteries of a day that is new

or shall we allow the mind meander
let it's "work" find itself crowning
there in its core uncover simplicity
strip away a mournful state of heart ?