In old worn-out lines we gather to collect dust phased only by our recollections of what never was meant to be.
I have come to terms with the emptiness that resides within us all.
Hollowed out is the shell is but a point.
It's standing merely a display.

Weathered hands broken egos have we all not felt the burn and then been left cold by yet another winters rain?
Old songs over bridges of memory some more weathered than others.

Deception leads to bitterness thoughts merely plague my reality.
Loneliness leads to weakness but I haven't found a better route yet.

The wolves howl hauntingly in the distance is my thoughts bleed trapped within this prison of reflection.
I'm far from over but don't let the rest of the ******* know that.

The reader is but a viewer to another man's soul, lurking within the confines of safety and warmth.
True depth is experienced never read.

Sometimes we all fall down my friends.

Old words empty page so distant we were.
Myths of logic the clouds loomed heavy I bask in the rejection as my flames have burnt themselves out I fear.

No chapter written, the end yet a scratch .
We spoke in riddles only to forget the reason now I find less ******* in are lies so long I have forgotten are truths.

Dark scenes no light from this shutter so does escape the day burdens of are nights cast stones to a soon to be outgoing tide .
My words the ghost haunted only in shadows sometimes we must bury are dreams only to see nightmares through.

No pain me breath in a faithless  embrace .
I no need for the stories so I will simply close the book.
Tomorrows a promise to the few and a reprise of extinction of my thoughts tonight.
Hate what you will never grasp I simply have grown to ignore it all the same .

A demented thought sometimes beats a million well intended lies.
Place your bets when the smoke clears I'll be there a little less left of the fool you once thought to know.

In the wreckage we stood in the moonlight now shadows we've become chase the rats away from the bones .
To many times I have chosen to exist a shell of the canvas can you still recognize what I no longer see myself?

We can **** in passion and thrive only within lust.
We can exist for today only to yearn for a image of what was never are past.

It will all have to fade sometime my dear .
Maybe we could ignore this but it's just not me to play it safe.


And when you find the edge will you push past or simply turn around?
Lit cigarettes linger as once did I there is always a part that should never be taken away .

In the moment we lingered as children afraid of the unknown .
then it was  s nothing more of you as always there was far less of me . .
**** the past it only serves a crutch to collect dust with bitter thoughts and run down as this half vacant room.

And in the silence we knew the answers to questions we never cared to ask.

The page is dry .

I, the poet wandering and amazed
Nailed by unhappiness to the wall
By age and poverty,
On which floor of stupidity or ignorance I dwell?
I don't know,
However, I count beads of the words
As rosary,
In Hope of Redemption
And attain light of elevation
All covered with Serenity.
Consistent and quiet with myself alone,
As the greatest longing for Purity -
Which one touches the World by the wise look.

In my dreams, I wander
Among the shady palm tree's alleys,
Where my beautiful, forever, Nefertiti -
Who never gets old,
Calms wrinkled surface of the water
And inserts hand inside familiar gesture,
Bowing her head
To bless Buddha and the whole Kingdom.
Hiding in her *****
The Script of The United Elements, and
Papyrus of The Secret Proportion,
Silences her existence
In front of the threshold at Highest Meditation.

Same time
On the bank of the river Nile
Peasant washes his food,
Squeeze's thorn from his heel
Whole in the prayer and pain.

The countless form of existences
In the Total Kingdom of Being and Suffering,
In the Space of Vanished Events.

In vain to look
In the scrolls of the treasures
Library of Alexandria
Simple prescription.

Memories crumble to dust
Bricks of remembrance
Thrown angrily from the windows of my eyes
Shattering the glass seven floors up

At the bottom
The feet of those on the first floor
Had to walk on shards of regret
A treacherous, ****** movement
And in the end got no where
But back to the stained carpets
Screaming inside the walls
Of a house
Not a home

The second floor
Tenants fell to their knees
Begging for the first floor
To relax
The commotion was just
Too much too handle
Rattling the weakened, buckled walls

The third floor
They were frightened from the up rise of chaos
Got sick to the stomach
And doubled over in pained retrospect
Because they left their windows open
And swallowed air
Instead of pride

The fourth floor
Was broken beyond repair
Cracked right down the middle
Blood seeped from it's fissured walls
Like an arrow wound to the heart
Those inside sprawled in puddles of conflict

The fifth floor
Was out of bandages
For the fourth floor
They used them for mouth covers
So the sixth floor above couldn't smell
The lies on their breath

The sixth floor
Always did hold a nose in the air
But that couldn't hide them from trouble
They were stuffy, and often full
As though the tears that often ran down the bridges
Were more than the emotional pressures
They could carry at once

The seventh floor
Was tired of everything
Constantly red and with teary eyes
They stared down upon the whole scene
Disgusted with the image presented
So they threw the newest memories out
And watched them crumble to dust
Seven floors down

I may not be Walt Whitman or William Wordsworth or Robert Frost. But I am human and just as Whitman and Wordsworth and Frost wrote, so too can I write.

So too can I share with strangers words that express my humanness because even if I'm not famous, I feel, I see, I hear, I simply exist.

Isn't that what poetry does?
Reminds us that we all experience this world similarly,
We all grieve,
We all seek,
We all love,
We all want,
We all cry,
We all wonder,
We all simply exist.

And that is enough for me to write, for you to write, and even if we don't get recognition,
It's about conveying this notion of existing.