My kingdom is priceless
So a penny will due
My kingdom is words
In a rainbow of hues

For a penny I hand you my brush
To paint my kingdom so it now belongs to you
May I suggest a multi-colored landscape
And hues of blue to brush the sky from morn to eve
And black with points of light for a blanket of Universal awe and countless stars

My kingdom for a penny
To paint your heart's desire
With strokes one might admire
My kingdom - nay, your kingdom now! - to do as you would do, to lay your heart's desires

Across the rolling fields and endless sky
In hues like notes a symphony of feeling for all to admire

And when you are thoroughly spent perhaps you too will offer your kingdom for a penny
And let another paint the world anew.

I'm tired. Exhausted is more like it. Sometimes I want something so bad I get overwhelmed and then comes the questioning, why am I doing this, is it worth doing and if it's worth doing what makes it worth it? It's 6:21 AM this moment, 6 hours and 21 minutes into another day, I'm sitting at a table next to the balcony, the door is wide open and I see the sun, the sun is just rising but it's blocked by a tree, so I look at the sun and the sun isn't blinding, not at this moment though soon it will be, soon it'll rise up above all the branches, soon if I look at the sun it'll hurt so when that moment comes, when the time is just right, I will look at the sun and the sun will be blinding.There's also a bird, it sounds like it's moaningn but I know that it isn't, that's just how it sounds. A bird which sings but it's not really singing, it makes such a sound you would think it was sad but it isn't so sad, at least I don't think so, I don't think that birds have the ability to feel, not physical feelings but ones from within, emotions like sadness which makes a bird moan, a moan like the sound that is made by a feeling that humans can feel and that all of us feel but we all feel it sometimes and for a whole host of reasons like when we are sitting in front of a laptop which is on a small table right next to a balcony beyond which the trees block the sun as it rises and while it is rising the leaves block the sunshine so during that time which is just a few minutes you can look at the sun and the sun isn't blinding and when it is 6 hours and 35 minutes into a new day, at 6:35AM is a moment in time which is captured in words which I choose to write down but there isn't much to them, no meaning no feeling no reason for writing the words that I'm writing and so as I write this I realize it's pointless, these words have no worth so they're no more then letters, a whole mass of letters I'm stringing together for no ******* reason and so I'll stop writing and now that I'm stopping to write without meaning the logical question is why publish this message if this message is worthless, there's no reason for it thus no reason why I should hit the blue button which has 4 letters in it which create the word "Post" which means if I click it I'll be posting this message which has less purpose than the blue button which posts it, and so what I'll do is stop writing this nothing and instead of all this nothing I'll click the blue  button which has more worth than all these words and that's really sad if you think about a button worth more than the whole of this stupid, pointless po...

Amidst the solace of a night
When all appears as if it's right
I look towards the Eastern shore
And realize that it's black no more.

The sky in hues of purple-blue
Gives hint that soon the sun will rise
I listen for the silence which brings peace to all my sleepless nights
But in its place the birds awake
They're chirping should bring peace to most
But not to me, not when I see, through reddened deadened weary eyes
Which haven't had the peace of sleep
Not on this very night at least

At least if sleep brought constant peace
The chirping birds would be so sweet
Instead when sleep comes randomly
The solace of the dead of night is dreaded with the end in sight

The sky now hues of softer blues
The sounds of morning traffic grows
The sun breaks over Eastern shores
If only I could see in it the beauty that most others see

But it's been years of sleepless nights
And years of dreading morning light
But soon enough the sky so bright
Will call me forth into the sun
And then, sometimes, I feel it's worth
I see the birds
I see the world
And everything seems to be right
If only for a moment I find peace and that's a cherished thought.

Dripdripdripdrip drip as it slips all it’s secrets, secrets slipped from the lip of the rusty metal moldy faucet, water whispers water whimpers water wishes of a time long gone; dripping water ever swirling round the beaten bolted sink; bolted to a wooden floor, chipped and nicked and cracked but grips, it grips the sink and won’t let go.

Secrets swirling round the sink into the void and through the pipes beneath the wooden boards of floor which would let loose their life-long grip of one worn weathered tired tethered reddish tinted rusty sink if only it - the wood! - if it could leave the floor it; the wood would stand and stretch and scratch and then would walk right out the door; wooden boards held hostage by a layered web of iron nails nailed years ago.

Creaking boards tell tales to pipes which snake throughout the secret house; Drip they drip they speak they slip through lips of sinks the secrets silent lip they drip and slip andio they rip and drip andrip they drip they dripdrip they ripipip i i…

Hush the whisper of the wind through broken windows rattles timber breaks the slumber of the man whose face is etched and leathered ever marked by hands of time; time played games the game of life the old man thought and thinks he still can stand and stretch and scratch then walk straight through the door and out the house, like secrets lost in rusty pipes he thinks he’ll walk into the dark and be whisked off on wings of wind which carries whispers rattles windows speaks in drips through rusty lips of bolted sinks gripped by the floors forever more and so the man will sit he sits and thinks and thinks he drips and drips drips dripdripipip i i i...

End Part 1

I'm tired. Exhausted is more like it. Sometimes I want something so bad I get overwhelmed and then comes the questioning, why am I doing this, is it worth doing and if it's worth doing what makes it worth it? It's 6:21 AM this moment, 6 hours and 21 minutes into another day, I'm sitting at a table next to the balcony, the door is wide open and I see the sun, the sun is just rising but it's blocked by a tree, so I look at the sun and the sun isn't blinding, not at this moment though soon it will be...

...soon it'll rise up above all the branches, soon if I look at the sun it'll hurt so when that moment comes, when the time is just right, I will look at the sun and the sun will be blinding.

There's also a bird, it sounds like it's moaning but I know that it isn't, that's just how it sounds. A bird which sings but it's not really singing, it makes such a sound you would think it was sad but it isn't so sad, at least I don't think so, I don't think that birds have the ability to feel, not physical feelings but ones from within, emotions like sadness which makes a bird moan, a moan like the sound that is made by a feeling that humans can feel and that all of us feel but we all feel it sometimes and for a whole host of reasons like when we are sitting in front of a laptop which is on a small table right next to a balcony beyond which the trees block the sun as it rises and while it is rising the leaves block the sunshine so during that time which is just a few minutes you can look at the sun and the sun isn't blinding...

...and when it is 6 hours and 35 minutes into a new day, at 6:35AM is a moment in time which is captured in words which I choose to write down but there isn't much to them, no meaning no feeling no reason for writing the words that I'm writing and so as I write this I realize it's pointless, these words have no worth so they're no more then letters, a whole mass of letters I'm stringing together for no ******* reason and so I'll stop writing and now that I'm stopping to write without meaning the logical question is why publish this message if this message is worthless, there's no reason for it thus no reason why I should hit the blue button which has 4 letters in it which create the word "Post" which means if I click it I'll be posting this message which has less purpose than the blue button which posts it, and so what I'll do is stop writing this nothing and instead of all this nothing I'll click the blue button which has more worth than all these words and that's really sad if you think about a button worth more than the whole of this stupid, pointless post...

"If you don't wanna' lick my ****** that's fine, but don't attack my character." Said the lesbian in the reality TV show. !

She's holding a red plastic cup, slurring like a drunk. She is profound. If I called her gay I think she'd say "*******, ***. I'm a ****." I might point out that **** and ***** are gay; she, perhaps, would then remind me that after Katelynn or katelinn or however Bruce spelled his new name for a brief period in 2016 LGBT had a Q added to the tail-end... but 4 letters is the max allotment for tagging a community and the Q simply took the splash and the roll off the LGBT brand...

... and thus the Q was dropped; and thus the order of the world restored; and thus, on the very last minute of the 6th day, the Lord's final gift to man and life in general on planet earth was a raging ******* in the form of a drunk lesbian educating us all on the fine merits of keeping one's ****** wet BECAUSE a dry ****** can only belong to - nay! exist as far as the reality star would have you believe... vaginas exist onto themselves, though science has deduced with unquestionable Puritan certainty - despite the very Words Written by The Very Good Lord's Hand himself in The Holy Bible as Interpreted by the Most Wholly Holy Puritanical preacher preaching from Jerusalem to L.A. itself - Vaginas (cap the V, it's a she and she's a noun) most definitely and defiantly belong to mammals only; However should they be dry then said mammal most-probably has a questionable reputation and a clearly corrupt character.

The sun burns bright
The heat is blasting, scorching  hot
Burning razor rays of light
Beams like sharpies poking at the
Pockmarked clouds
Let through the light in shards
So bright
It burns I look it hurts I stare I dare myself to count to ten
By two i cannot see what's 'round
And still I stare by four I'm blind

Part 2

The old man sits upon his chair and speaks words slip with spit they drip - drip drip - he speaks but no one’s there. From thought to speech the old man speaks, his words released hang in the mist formed out of air so thick and dense it ebbs and flows and dances with a constant freeze brought by the breeze thus when he speaks the old man sees the sounds that slip from his own lips...

...Each word a sound each sound a note encased in ice the words take form; his thoughts comprised of merging chords which morph into the words whose form is slick and round, encased in ice, shine like a string of flawless pearls.

A burden air can never bare the string of pearls falls from mid-air. Pearls hit the floor with such great force that impact shatters words like bones upon a field where battles roared, souls ripped from form thus die his words; remains of thoughts the old man spoke, words torn apart reduced to chords in piles litter scatter wasted cursed forever to be words unheard like treasures lost, no! never found or heard, his words the unearthed pearls of thoughts he thought and dared to speak though fate he knew would have them be forever lost beneath the sea where words from chords and notes will never see the day nor know the heat when they would shine under the sun though smooth and round their form once was when once the shattered chords were words.

There was a time his words had form their form was round like pearls or drops of water dripped from leaky faucets drip they slip from rusty lips into the sink and down the pipes which snake throughout the secret house, they drip the words words slip his thoughts from lips are lost drip drip the words in chords thoughts drip are lost in sinks forever gone the old man thinks…

Drip drip he speaks words slip drip drip from lips words drip their form drip drip so round the sound from chords which merged and formed the words he thinks and speaks and let's thoughts drip released expelled he sees the strings of pearls his words afloat drip drip the words the sound he hears or heard he thinks once there he sees or saw he saw he knows he did let words drip drip from lips but then drip drip he knows he sits he rocks on boards within drip drip a house where secrets drip, the words, drip drip the sound, they slip forever gone as if they once were sounds which maybe formed the maybe thoughts he may have thought the old man thinks that maybe he just never spoke the words which maybe never were the thoughts he thought or did he think he didn’t know now doesn’t know not like the sound he knows he hears the drip, drip drip drip from rusty lips of leaky faucets down the sink...

The End Part 2

Chapter 1: Goody Goodwill Was Exceptionally Great at Being Good

I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will counsel you with my eye upon you; I shall show you the way.
-Psalm 32:8


      The Preacher Goody Goodwill was a very fine man, and a good preacher too. Destined for the cloth, Goody felt that his was the way into the Good Lord's Grace and Goody knew as sure as God chose hues of blue and a brush He purchased* in March of 1973 at a PennySavers Discount Store in Moscow, Russia, to paint the sky from the break of dawn until the sun disappeared in all its God-given glory beneath the Western Horizon.

The Preacher Goody also knew that the Good Lord was a rather curious being, and even though He was an all-knowing, all-seeing omnipresent Divine being He was He and man was man and perched upon a Golden throne He often felt all on his own and gazed beyond the Pearly Gates and down the path of Salvation itself, and looked upon his Earthly domain and felt the urge to walk among men; thus, on far too often occasions in far too random locations the Lord took on the form of man, woman or animal and walked among his children. Once he even took on the form of a pebble on a seashore (though that turned out to be a rather boring experience not to be repeated).

Goody, too, decided that it was his duty to walk among men so that he may see sin for himself although he did so rarely and never randomly: a mere four times a year - on the first Monday of each season - Goody prepared a ritualistic bath meant to wash his holy vows away if only for a single day, and when he emerged from the scalding water, his skin was scathed which felt to Goody as it should be even though what he was doing surely had the chance to jeopardize his Holy soul and yet he did it not for hI'm but for mankind as Goody thought that God had planned despite no single word within the Lord’s own book described to be an act that preachers should be taking so they may be better preachers; but Goody knew what Goody knew which was what God expected preachers do, thus with common clothes and common thought, and feeling good he walked on out of this house and out of the town and among the men and women who sinned.

The preacher Goody Goodwill came from the very small town of Dimply, West Carolina, which was not much of a sinning sorta’ town but beyond its borders down a beaten path which then turned into pavement and led to a Highway, if one followed that path one would reach the Big City where sinners sinned away and where God and Goody both discovered how it was to be a man among the common man. Though the Lord Almighty frequented the city often and in many forms the preacher Goodwill had a strict routine to which he strictly stuck to, year after year.

          Throughout the day, four days a year, Goody put his faith to test as he roamed the big streets in the very Big City and watched and held his tongue lest he preach and his plan fall apart and the sinners would then see that a preach was in their reach and they surely would reach out and then Satan would have one ‘fore if Goody fell the way of the men who sinned all day then for sure he would be lost because Goody was the priest and he couldn't well forgive if he couldn't self-confess thus the risk which Goody took when he chose to risk his soul was a risk he surely knew was a risk that God would see and would write with His own hand in the Book which He would use to judge every single man.

As the sun began to set and the daylight fade away, he would start his way back home and thank God the day was done. Goody felt at peace when he finally reached his home where he'd take another bath and would emerge a Holy man and would don his Holy robes and he knew that he had proved what he knew he needn't prove, that he was a real good man and that good was what God wanted.