Life is as tear drops of the morning.
When the sun throws its warm kiss
Away to the drop,
It becomes an invisible entity.

What do we do,
when we no longer have control,
no longer can say,
do,
or change a thing
about a situation.
We just have to accept it,
as painful as it is.
We need to learn to live with it...

Breathing in the fresh air near  the trees of serpentine purple,
To inhume  the dolour of my  dejected loneliness..
In the   distressing ire I am that   lacustrine,,
Listening the soft lay in the beautiful lea..
People know, my wounds are   plumbless,,
No tears in my  orbs  ,   seems I am    mage....
People  here are  serpents  who  don't  slay,,
But  are  giving  the  bad  sempiternal   gashes...
Now  look  at  my   stygian  tenebrous  visage,,
From which poesy is flowing with a plashing sound...
You,,  know   their  life   was  in   pitch_dark,,,
Now is lucent and niveous, orgulous!! what I did,,
Those  toys  of  clay   rend   me   savagely,,,
Now my vermilion  ichor exhibits the beautiful limn.
People  of  this  era  are  pitiless,, my  dear!!!
Are deceiving ere and after, not caring for eld..

Life seems beautiful when
I see you smile
Though apart thousands of mile
Life seems ugly when
there is gloom on your face
Even when we are together at a place..

As we all wake up
But we aren't the same
Continuously living the same as we did yesterday
Dying inside cause we feel we have nobody
Everyone not caring what they say
For some people, fight to save their life
Giving her life
Her life is now actually being noticed
Inside her, a fire raged
Joyfully she would lay it all down
Killing her soul softly
Love didn't win
Mending broken hearts
Never thinking of herself
Out of the ashes
Placed others needs before her own
Quitting the pain
Ripping through a past of scars
Shutting out others thoughts
Unlike all the others
Violence would cease
Was it all in vain
Xyst: something she has always wanted to see, now she can
Yellow, blue flowers and many more flowers to see
Zymotic is something she felt

It was a Saturday night  in the park
his trees were singing
out of tune
his clay pigeons needed to come out
of his closet
for he was parked
on a stool
at his favorite watering hole
amongst a full house
where pairs beat singles
and there he was
shooting blanks
drowning in his sorrows
on his nine lives of lowlife
hoping for a sitting duck in despair
the kind that waddles right up to the Romeo's
with suspense in their hearts
and spontaneity in their wings
a cackle
that he can tackle
to take home
to his garden bed
for him to be fed
but what he got
was for not, naught, knot
wistful thinking
sitting in a bar sinking
for the jukebox played a broken record
finding love in the wrong places
and the joke squarely was on him
for thinking, he could round the bases
looking no further than the escape of his glows
or a crutch of decoys
and sitting ducks
for he was no Romeo
yet
there he was still, like steel,
a stole away in society
forlorn, preserved
like mamas mothballs tucked away
in basement storage
squandering the forage
for there were no triple treats
tonight for him
or forever sounds grim
for his reality check gone dim
or
no eye candy
for his heart beats
no picnic
for his ****
and all the bottled whiskey
could not drown out his pain
as his eyes were slain
as the sitting ducks turned
from his fantasy corner
phantomlike
and though
he's sitting at the bar, a loner
reminded that in cards of life
pairs beat singles
and in his worn hand
familiarly holds a lonely joker
for it's like he tries
and its
like his sitting ducks
are like hoofed deer
and his little sweets,
are spooked
hoofing
away from his
now darken forest
like red ants at his picnic
and the gleam in his eyes turned
to the poorest
its
its
as if his life and watering hole
was condemned
his garden bed cut at the stem
it is as if he has a red vest on
and a rifle don
and all the hoofed deer
panic
looking at him in fear
like he's manic
or maybe it's his eyes
that hold dark skies
he orders another double
trouble
for what else is there to do
on his Saturday night
than to sit in a bubble
forever sounds grim
but sing him a sweet hymn
he says please
to wit as he steals peeks
at the bartenders triple treats
like a bee to a hive
his joker still strikes a beat
if only he can find a bolster
for his gun needs a holster
and a deer in the headlights
would be hard to find
the confession now told, tolled, towed
through tears
the guy in the bar window
is me, sitting
resigned

Logan Robertson

10/18/2018