I once played a game of cards with the devil, under a blood red moon upon the lake of our lady Babylon. With a grin, the devil did win, for his hand had totally waisted me.

Shower time- It's better than normal time. Especially with the smell of herb in your head. Step out. Dry off. Hit the herb again. It's time to start the day.

I ingest 3 cups of coffee, and hit the herb again. Then I start my day. I go out into the world. Out there where it is cold. Out there to slave the day away just to do it again the next day.

Please tell me that there is something more than this. I beg, but I get nothing.Maybe in the end, that is all there really is... Nothing. This thought's cold logic sinks in, and I am sick.

Sick of things done in repetition to no end. Tired of hearing the same one line joke day in and day out.

Welcome to my store.

Can I get you any more?

Thank you, come again... and again... and again...

I can not take it any more!

Oh, wait! It's time to clock out.

Hear how the pen scratches the paper. Rolling on fragments of thought. Dripping with the same ink as yesterday. I am bleeding all over this notebook. Could I ever write loud enough, so that somebody could hear me screaming?

I once played a game of cards with the devil, under a blood red moon upon the lake of our lady Babylon. Plain and clean, the devil's hand was mean, for it had totally waisted me.

The mind of a poet is such a curse
Its search for words an endless thirst

Poets cannot sit and simply be
Soak in the splendor of all they see

Confronted with beauty which defies description
A quest for lyrics is the poet's prescription

Thinking wordy expression will enhance the sublime
Poets lose the chance to be lost in time

Though graced with wonder again and again
The poet can't find that elusive zen

Counting the infinite voyage of the stars
Or thinking of all the drops in the sea
And thinking of the grains of sand on mars
Shrinks my body to microscopic sizes, you see.
Perhaps I'll send a paper plane out in the sky
To watch it fly to distance galaxies of tomorrow
And maybe it'll come right back to where I lie
In my bed of restless thoughts of stress and sorrow.

I'll spill some coins into the street
And watch them tumble by
Just watching them speed by leathered feet
Brings a salty tear to my tired eye.
Because coins have journeys of their own
In the musky old worlds of talk
Once carved straight out of stone
And before people knew to walk.

All the pages in the world wouldn't confuse
What thoughts are born today
Even books created from a powerful muse
Couldn't shake what keeps to stay.
Cause once I challenged God and all
To come down from the clouds
And I stood there sweaty and slipped and fall
To my mind of bewildered crowds.

Maybe now is the time to lay down the sword
Of previous gestures and innocent dust
Maybe now is the time to strike a new chord
To create what inevitably should must.
I'm not retiring from smiles and cheer
And no longer should it be any such curse
As to be what it is to create my own course to steer
No one now has to tell me how to write my next verse.

Forgiving...

It isn't about saying its okay...

It isn't even about being okay,

But about telling them that you aren't,

But will be fine...



.............................................................­...


We all will be...

Here comes the procession.
They march through streets muddied with rain.
They're lead by figures dressed in black.
People look on in fear at their raven masks.

The birth of the daughter was sad,
because there's a sickness that plagues this land.
It feeds on those doomed to a horrible fate.
Though they start out their lives in innocence.

No one knows when it will end,
how does death take one's hand?
Those figures dressed in black take off their masks,
to reveal humans who have been put to task.

But people move on and pretend,
that this plague does not prey upon them.
Only a certain few must suffer the memories,
and they'll question the silence of this land.