an unrepentant poet
walks among the world
seeing and not believing
anything perceived

he dreams of inconsistent
anomalies of existanse
sees to the end of time
in imaginary universe

and no one says a word

the story begins in this sentence
and ends when you stop reading
you are the creator of all that will be

the door opened and you were born
did you knock or just drop into
it does not matter you are here now

male or female or something else
life was needed and you became it
walk if you can is a metaphor

the world is but a reflex
and dreams are made by god small g
a mess of confusion is it's problem

I miss you
missing me
the way you
miss me

With disdain they looked upon one Billy McGee
a boy that promised never to be;
a rep that’s scarred and scratched,
for sure his name’s mismatched
as darker skin ya’ever did see
on blackish hair with reddish flecks of Billy McGee.

A red haired aboriginal boy
matches were only a toy
and he was caught red handed
and always branded
the troublesome fire starter.
Poor boy had no farda
he was stolen in a generation;
trouble, his one destination
for any of his wild-sown seed.
Never had a chance, Billy McGee.

Belatedly, towing a rust-worn Saab, where
many dreams and adventures are wrenched
from a youngster's brooding petulance ...

Gravel crunches under a pair of balding tires
guttural screaming to a downbeat of debt
spewing silently from a tattered billfold.

What a present: timely to an empty fridge,
in the hallway, a growing pile of washing
impatiently reeking of malodorous intent.

Passion flows from the pen.
Lines race through the mind
In a feverish fervor.
Such a noble piece deserves a remarkable title -
Something unique,
Innovative,
Never been done before...

"Untitled."
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Oh to be the young, Untitled poet.
They live in a world of dreamy wonder.
It takes an earnest naivete to believe
That the three stanzas, freshly written
Are beyond the need for a name.
How can words so profound be labeled?
To name the art would do it a disservice,
Surely.

However, do not frown on the Untitled poet.
No one is born with
A sophisticated understanding of the thesaurus.
Indeed, you were once a starry-eyed artist,
As was I.
We all need our time to bake,
Letting our edges singe and crisp.
In due time, they'll look back on their journey
And take note of how they've grown.
After all,
How can you call yourself a writer
If you don't hate your old work?