I was sitting on a train with my pad and a pen, trying to write a poem. I had no title, but I had written down the first line

...I was sitting on a train with my pad...

A man sat opposite me.
After a minute or so of scanning his paper and throwing cursory looks in my direction
he enquiried "What are you writing?"

"I'm trying to write a poem about a man trying to write a poem on a train
who gets asked by a stranger 'what are you writing'.

"Can I be in it?", asked the stranger opposite.

"You already are", I replied.

The train pulled out of the station.

to sleep is to dream*
Or so I am told

But you said
I don't get much sleep

And it's true you don't sleep
You don't want to dream like that
Those thoughts are too real
You subconscious yells at you any tells you things you think are true
You lie to yourself in this dream (nightmare)

The reason why you have nightmares is because
your reality is a dream

What you have before you
Are friends and love and warmth
You don't need to dream

And to deal with this imbalance
The natural order of the world
Invades your dreams with lies

So
You don't sleep and dream

*you live to dream

You’re a puzzle
Thousands of missing pieces
When I reach to hold you
I touch the missing spaces

You’re going nowhere
Awfully fast
Pedal to the metal
Hope this high will last

“Do you see me?”
Your mother snaps.
Can’t hear.  Ears
overflowing with schnapps

Addiction coded in genes.
Father to son it passes
The pattern continues
Passed along in ***** glasses

Tis the Season
*To believe

I'm not that smart
                                          So talk slow

I have good hearing
                                          whisper

I know
                                         So don't make me think

I don't care
                                          But make me

I have a good memory
                                           So don't make me want to forget

I love
                                            Don't make me hate

I'm not safe
                                            Make me secure

I can't make up my mind
                                             Help me decide

I'm broken
                                             Glue me back together

I want
                                             Be what I need

I'm lost
                                              Find me

1 + 1  isn't math.
It's life and it isn't hard.

1 + 1 is love.
A universal concept
of criss-crossed hands.
Blue eyes to others
hugging their gaze.  

1 + 1 is war.
Two acidic cultures
colliding and sizzling
at contact. Blood
Hot. Black.

1 + 1 is curiosity
Glassy eyes on charcoal talons
Wrinkled trunk 'round tail of dog
Feeble finger ravaged by thousands of legs
Paint Africa upon my hands.

1 + 1 are footprints
of mud on the porch.
Yours between mine.
Toes so close and mud still fresh.

But for those,
who have the most unfortunate
pleasure of removing
themselves from
infinity.
1 + 1 = 2.

How sad.