Fictional lies, have thee crossed into my colloquial reality,  why; I beg posing as if it was you who coerced me to these cuffs,
Waves of despair and ominous character break into my soul-
It is this the harvest, a fertile soil, take me away it is my season-
Falling into an abyss is the norm, there is no control;
My compass points north, I've woken up from this dream- this fire has been extinguished;
It is fictional, I've got more for which to Live

I have walked the path righteous men should walk, I speak of non religious based Gods, no books with synonyms  and semantics to dictate how to grow,
Perfection isn't holding hands with men, excellence is perhaps men's closest ally,
I try and try again but then-
It sets in this mindful thought a seed of fact, a seed to be the crop to translate what these eyes see and these ears hear,
as appreciative I am thanks from these lips simply aren't enough,
For having this machine in my head; my gratitude leads me to say that it isn't the path of the righteous men- It is the imperfections of being men that help correct our heading in this earth

With this walk, with this talk I raise my hands up to the sky,
When the Grey clouds would arrive this day would be one to survive,
Hook me up to this joke played on my life
See me smile see me laugh it is a rocky ride,
It's amusing oh your stories in this road
Being traced by the blinks in my eyes
My breaths my heartbeats; living free not slaved freedom at last,
My mountain top is a treacherous climb,
My wide river crossed with gasps of air not giving up,
With this walk and this talk, the fights not over cancer you won't take my life.

Only a taste
That's all I get
Fleeting moments
Happy thoughts, a tease
I'll get just that

But they're longer and longer
Between there and now
The day's roll by
Where happiness is constant
Rather than elusive

Feelings of guilt
For those that don't have it
But then I'm appreciative
Because for the longest
I wasn't

Intense
once were the colors
of faded lines
a dark humor, a love, of
another poets spirit
a
salute
to those faded
lines
that transform me.

be brave, give me
your hand, touch me.

Oh..... sigh,

Write again, the stars flowers ponds
But,
when you desire
a real touch
come to me.

When you put your pen down,
when,
the time comes: the ink is leaving
your paper blank.

Love is now hard to write
about,
Put your hand in mine, touch.

If Adam and Eve were a true story; I would sin for that woman to live in eternal glory

So much of life
Is wasted
Nine to Five

Exhaustion cripples
Down time, anxiety
Controls the next

Worry about bills
The looming certainty
And lingering doubt

Up at early
The pattern
Hardly broken

A vacation spent
Away; life's return
Still follows how

The training of
Nine to five
Work and life

But coffee copes
When the restless
Rise