Proclaim to me a trade,
For every crumb of food in the land,
Every drop of wine,
Every glimmer of gold in the realm,
And still I wouldn't trade it for a singular moment of time.

Oh, carry me on the winds of a sleepless dream,
Where there's fields aplenty upon the fiddler's green,
Where the woman is kind and the man is fit and clean,
Borne there upon St. Albans' wing.

Drift me off upon a fiddlers tune,
To a place where the sky is such a brilliant blue,
Where hope is abounding like those dog-days in June,
Where magnolias sprout forth like passion renewed.

****** me forth upon the lover's blade,
A more precarious place no other man can claim,
Where hope and love balance upon a precarious edge,
So easy to tumble off into that dark and void-filled death.

To be in such a state,
forsaking sleep,
Carries me to this strangest of dream,
For without such abstention,
And lack of means,
My creativity floweth out into an endless stream.

my words
spill out
and somehow
i am still
writing
about you

I look out at my hometown,
And what is it I see?
I see a stranger,
Bearded and haggard,
Staring back at me.

Oh, my hometown,
So filled with cherished memories,
What happened to your pastures and your fields,
Your farms and your special feel?
Where I explored so deep in my formative years,
Never able to uncover all of your secrets.

Your fields are now filled,
With cookie-cutter suburbs, million-dollar home-o-ramas, and strip malls,
Your farms a distant memory,
Your pastures destroyed and paved over,
Parking for the urban refugee.

You were a place of mystery,
A home for 8 generations before me,
But now you are nothing but a hollowed-out husk,
Gutted for profit and a name.

Without my abuse
Who am I now
When drugs were my muse

Was I ever talented
Or just creative in addiction
I traded my emotions
For an anti depressant prescription

I want to be heard
I want my words to mean something more
than scribbles on a page
Or a hobby when I’m bored

There’s a message in my madness
If only I could see it myself
I’m in a tea cup spinning
Tossing fake news in a wishing well

To give life to the inner workings of my mind I ink the surface of these pages with secrets untold,
A breath of fresh air is this release of suppressed expression that now flows freely,
Life is but a muse to the poet’s pen.

Poetry is a universal language that defies all boundaries,
Such serene stanzas touch souls with hidden splendor,
This prose awakens dreams in the heart of the wanderer,

Lost is the mind as it travels across the words on display,
Connected is the spirit as it creates meaning unique to the self,
Life is but a poem waiting to be discovered.

Trace my curves in charcoal,
Sketch my lines in lead,
Fill in all my shadows,
As I lie naked on this bed.
Warm my hues in pastels,
Draw in every part,
Adore me with your paint brush,
Turn my body into art.

and you
you standing there like the goddess
Aphrodite of Knidos
drawing the softest curves amidst lines that make my heart yearn
for even she
murmured

'where thou saw me naked?'

you rest
effortless
making man fall between your marble curves
a beauty holding centuries of thought and attempts to simply possess

you stand

free against the attempts of man
their meddling fingers so often confusing the way your hips dipped and your ******* crest

shattering all ideas of beauty in the way you smiled at me
between whispers of curtains

and idolatry

Where do these words come from?
Are they from my heart or my brain?
Do the flow forth from some great vault hidden away in my soul,
Or are they plucked freely from the wind?

Where is it that our inspiration comes from,
From the world around us,
Or from within?
Can our natures influence the world around us,
Or is it that nature that influences us?

Words are ****** to a poet
When we run out it makes our blood shiver
Our hands tremble and our lips tremor
A muse becomes an addiction
I miss the high of loving you
I crave the way you made me feel
The cravings dig a hole inside me
Allowing the emptiness to win
It's like my bones are bleeding and my veins are freezing
As I sit with a pen in hand and a paper made of sand

I wish that emotions captured in a sentence or two
Could chase away the withdrawal of being away from you