the thin line between poet and:


******* artist
is so thin,
it is almost,

almost,

invisible.

I have held love in the palm of my hand.
Sifting it through my fingers cautiously.
Holding its sweet down against my skin.
Tightening my grip, to squeeze all it has.
Lost within the confines, my world collapsed.
So, beating the door, I begin again.
Another moment, another soft sigh.
Another cycle, another way to die.
Embracing the lavender, I slip to sleep.

Make sure to light a cigarette with a previously lit one. I’m a smoker, yes, but that doesn’t give me the right to be a waster- butane is a fine commodity!

I walk a line
between sanity
and crazy
A balancing act
As loneliness sets in
I tilt to the edge

Because of this
No one can tell me right from wrong
without hearing a question
that stops them from forming a solid opinion
on what to do with the world

"What about the ones who benefit from the bad and the ones who suffer from the good?"

My brain betrayed me

Salt dripping off eyelashes

We’ll be a fine line

What are you thinking?  

I don’t know

Hidden in the dark,

like a monster under a bed



Blank face, no expression.

Your walls are high, but so are mine

You’re trapped.

In a room without windows

A straight jacket around your heart

It’s trying to pump; you won’t let it



It’s dark down here

Pressure.

Drowns.

My.

Soul.  



I’m trying alright.

To piece together the way you work,

just like a potter and his clay

One day, you will cross this line

This fine line.  

We’ll be alright.

If your amazing poem is too long for the line just cut it off because that wa