I think I saw you on the edge of reason
Where the pope sells freedom and kings commit treason
Indeed I saw you standing there boldly
With hearts in a basket you stood by so firmly
Indifference was screaming right through your expression
Then you laughed and you cried till you scared away the last angel
The creative spirit has always been mad
For how else can you create what others had banned
This is just another riddle for you to decipher
Just as nothing in this life is a choice that we muster

Power deceives,
And ill minds contrive.
Follow as you are lead,
Be happy to be alive!
Pay no attention to foul deeds,
Schemed and completed behind closed doors.
There lay flowers and candy for those,
Who forget wrongdoings forevermore.
Beware of hungry beasts,
That knaw on your tender mind.
To those who create of their own free will,
You are likely the last of your kind.
This angry world has no room for lovers,
For those who cherish and support.
All too often, it seems like fear,
Is the last, and most effective, resort.
False lives are drawn up,
And strung upon coathooks.
Observe beyond and you will see,
These lives were derived from cookbooks.
Cookie cutter lives.

My mind thought it was dead
for five long years
living a life under clouds of medication
raining blues on my forehead
I did not know what it meant
to be awake
I only knew what it meant
to not want to die
I look in the mirror and see surviving
as if survivor is my only worth
bleeding thick black lines
onto paper so thin
it disintegrates as I write
my bones are awed at the thought
that maybe it didn’t need to be this way
smoking lungs deciding whether to
keep putting out the fire
or let my body burn
burn with my own inspiration
love that buried itself in my ribcage
and made itself a prison
worried about the hurt that would
crush my hands to powder
like it did before I learned
how to silence my mind,
it is deciding whether to be broken
or swimming in my own head
learning to think again
against my body’s wishes
it’s being okay or creative
finding light
finding life
or finding nothing in return

I've tried to give up poetry,
As if it's some addiction.
Sometimes I feel like an addict.
Do you ever feel like that, you poets?
Do you get my depiction?
Addicted to the pen,
Confined to your mind--your paddock.
I feel like a ****** who's on it again,
Writing another poem to a friend,
For others to use it as I pretend.
I'm addicted to the waves,
As I'm tossed and blown about--their slave.
They pull me asunder.
Oh Lord, take me under.
Blow my cover.
Let me not be another fanatic on dope.
That doesn't mean I smoke;
I'm talking about words with emotion,
But sometimes I get lost in this ocean.
Compulsive to smoking,
I'm writing this, hoping,
That as my pen is the lighter
And my cigarette is the page,
I can light your soul on fire,
While keeping the addict in his cage.
May your demons choke on the brume
By the words that are the smoke you consume.

In time I feel something new
The peace of life, life renewed
I see a glow of light it sees me and brings me sight
I am guided by natures call
oceans roar or rain’s fall
I fear separation from this feeling
I fear the cage of a forced life
Give me a hope a feeling that I can hang onto,
a great awakening so I can do what I want to,
No, so I can do what you want to.
Peace is greater than fear and yet I find the greatest peace mixed with the latter.
Oh, all of my creativity,
Why does it seem to give me anonymity?