The old poets haunt me
they taunt me from the shadows
following every keystroke I type -
they’re critical of phrases,
they demand narrower themes
and mock the very clichés they invented.

I remind these frightful spirits of how tenuous
life was, how I’m blindly living these experiences,
how prevalent desire is, how human it is to chase
the things we’re told will fulfill us, like goals and love.

I try and explain this Internet thing,
how the more copious my writings,
the more people it says are following me.
How I really don’t want to sound paranoid
but as hard as I try - I don’t see anyone.
.
.
Song for this:
Too Much Time On My Hands by Styx
Reelin' In The Years by Steely Dan

"Cinderella", she said without a frown as she removed her Celine-Block shoes and dropped them into the garbage can .
"They hurt my feet . Anyway barefoot feels so free ."

Why not agree ?

"That was some dance ." I lamented . Then released a nebulous sigh of despair .

She grabbed my wrist ," Don't worry I was so glad to get out of there ."

"Can I call you a coach?"as I fingered the keys in my pocket for assurance .

"You can call me anything  , anytime !"

You heard me !
I don't write silly love poems anymore .
At best they become bleak .
They are the ships at sea scuttled by storm .
The aircraft that lose power and crash into the ground .
The miners of affection when the roof comes down .
Don't ask or make a sound .
I'm committed to silence so don't you mess around .
THEIR evermores doomed from first kiss and sworn bliss .
From the cradled vows
to the certain anyhows
Don't ask me about love poems anymore .

If there
    is
no way out

No path
    of return

No tunnel
     at the end
of the light

It'll be alright

Just when
    I thought
I was going
    somewhere

I find
    myself
Once more ribless
    to someone who
I thought
    cared

Desoulment

I turn back
    into
One lacking

Resurrected without
a soul

I knew you
back when
I didn't
know you

Now that
I know you
I wish I didn't

Like a cancer
on my
spiritual skin

An ache inside
my holy
bones

The fire
that burned
down heart
and home

I wish
you were
gone

I just discovered I've been passive-aggressive all my life !

Whatever !

I look inside myself
and see the drops of pain

I look around me and
see a sea of hearts the same

All are seeking comfort
for their losses or their shame

All having their doubts
and fears they will always be the same

A word of consolation
will never be enough

Don't pat me on the back
or give me that silver lining stuff

I need a purer living heart
A comforter of
words will never suffice enough

Someone who takes on the responsibility
for my sins
The sins that had my soul handcuffed

Someone to forgive the iniquity
To wash a soul clean as the wounds would be by rain

Someone I can trust upon
to take away the pain

Can you measure
the love hidden
in the sacred hallows
of our hearts ?

Did you consider the
strength
it would consume
to take it down
and tear it all apart ?

Was it worth
the time it took
gathering the fruit
from the seeds
of shame
you've planted ?

And the harvest of dust
amidst the chaff
was it all for nothing
that you took
for granted ?

Who can measure the
spirit of love
Or direct the purpose
of its cause ?

Or likewise
cast it to the dogs
like the pearls
before the swine
or so they say it was

Who can counsel
the wisdom
found stamped
on the face of all our hearts ?

Who then can destroy
or resurrect
the images
and all of its parts ?

All the rats have abandoned ship

The mice are all that remain

The pleas of the poets
for sanctuary have all gone unclaimed

The danger was Titanic
The path clogged by  bergs

The hull was breeched
and icy words pour in

Soon the stacks of stanzas
will slip beneath the reasons

and litter the floor with what was and is and certainly its end .

What ?
What are you gonna' do ?
Write a poem ?
Ha ! That's really rich !
The Baptist would send over a casserole and dish . But it's too far away and it would spoil before it could be delivered . How about a card of condolences or flowers . Same ole same so's , not feasible or adequate . Who's loss is it really ? Mine of course !
  So I'll sit in my rocking chair on the porch and stare down the memories or lay on my bed of remorse and share the emptiness and wonder about how fast our lives have passed . And of course I'll cut out another piece of my heart and hand it you to take with you on your long journey home wherever it may be .