Time to go back,
into my place.
Where no one can see me,
no light or no grace.

Time to go back,
into my hole.
Where all is forgotten,
all pain is fore told.

Time to go back
into my hell.
Where the creature is waiting,
that torturous cell.

Time to go back
into my sane.
Where my fortune is told,
all crazy as rain.

Time to go back
into my youth.
Where my story is begun
with the heel of a boot.

The Past is the Past ..
loneliness creeps right in..
the heart stops for a second
makes one wonder and ponder what is going on..
Tears fall like raindrops on a dry day in March
Spring slowly creeps in and surrounds us like the misty dew that it is..
those that shine through the deep mist of life will be like fallen snow ..
that sparks through the distant on the edge of the inevitable fade of the life that once begun..
Folds of mountain streams
like a breathe of nature's curves
spreading around the cascading rain
the moments I felt I belonged
were seconds that I was actually  alone
nothing familiar comes my way
as I lay here in this forgotten grave



Blessing my friends..
Debbie Brooks 2014

I dreamt I was lying,
forever dying.

Death is a question,
Life's but a mention.

I dreamt I was sitting,
forever believing.

Sadness is pure fear,
Happiness is but sheer.

I dreamt I was standing,
forever pandering.

Sight is not seeing,
blindness is but believing.

I dreamt I was writing,
forever sighing.

Hearing has no sound,
Listening is to bound.

I dreamt I was fed,
forever I was dead.

If passion is a crime,
Is my muse but a disease?

If love is a ******,
Is my ink but the blood?

If *** is the devil,
Is my paper but the cure?

If life is the game,
Is my passion not to write?

Did you study for the test of life?
I sure hope so.
But ask yourself this question,
Did I pass or fail?

Don't kick off me this writer's high,
Take my pen, will  make me cry.

The paper's my quilt, where I write my muse,
Warming all souls which have taken their views

So let the ink dry, straight from quarry.
This writer gets high by telling his story.