Do you feel your hands, tight----------
... Around my neck?
Do you see my face,
the same shade of purple
... To go with the walls.
!!! YOU SAID YOU'D PAINT ME !!!
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So,
Why is black and blue
... The only color, in your life?
And I still don't know you--------
Know me?
... And I could NEVER
write about you.
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Do you hear yourself, how---
How can you paint me?
Do you see your face?
My face, the same face.
Staring back at you...

The same blue eyes,
And a different mirror.

I am not a poet,
I don't paint pain into pictures,
I don't use syllabic rhymes,
I don't follow scriptures.

I am however,
A man who has had,
Enough of life,
And that is why,
I try to be funny.

Funny isn't a defence mechanism,
It is a part of heroism.

You're probably reading this like orange sticks,
And saying I couldn't carrot all.

You have no need of escape
when you already have.

Most days I blow kisses.

The poet is always looking for the next song to rise out the solid mass of a World that keeps on insisting to be noticed
its the inner worlds of hearts and minds that this poetry is seeking
a touch sublime and so ordinary anyone can sing it
where the strings of harps play themselves and all is rooted for the nourishment of souls making their way through the forest.