Couldn’t grasp a report today… dear child.
My broadcast body tuned to this frequency
Wouldn’t turn the channel ‘mind so beguiled
Me and my ******* voracious tendencies
Like a blood clot in my brain these words are filed
This new sensation is my delinquency.

Let’s shut it off... and get away.
Flip the switch on my ten-pound nemesis
Can shoulders bear its weight day after day
So Long the time has come to finish this.

This child as pure as I am blight; Let’s both be free.
Don’t Plant the Red Fern angel, he has long to Grow
Son, here’s my soul, please interchange with me
Like the boy I wonder, “Where will I go?”
As I’m not so proud of my biography
Alright Jack, it’s time to Get on the Road with this show.
Hell is a library with only one book, The Inferno.

_TRF 12/13/16

I'm stuck in the harsh reality
Of living in this city
Which had left me abate
A world with no Cinderella, no sleeping beauty
Nor a princess with a ******
Just people ready to hate

Today I woke by eight
Still hurrying so I won't be late
But I failed and still i got no pity
I tried to change my fate
Yet the future still lies in wait
And I still didn't lose my tenacity

Tomorrow is just another day
Though it's the 4th of May
I know Star Wars is not true
But that's not why I won't stay
It's not like I'm running away
May the Fourth be with You

I woke up optimistic
Yes! my problems may be enigmatic
But it won't always be static
I'll face this harsh reality
With my usual tenacity

.          IF I WERE A POET

                             The
                     First stanza
                     would be a      
       magnatic attic captivating
            Elegant architects of
                     iridescence  
                        Vividly
       propelling pupils to edges
                 Of the schleras        
        Compelling pens to pages
                    of new eras
    

            IF I WERE A POET
                                
                         ­              The
                              Second
                 Stanza would
             Mirror Zues's
          spear slicing through
        tears drowning in clouds
         striking fields of pens
                        Egniting the
                    capsules of
                 Variegated
               Lands


            IF I WERE A POET

                            The
                     Last stanza
             would sail summers
           tame winters bathe in  
         springs of autumn praise  
           deeds of the monarchs
           reigning over raining
           rainbows nurturing the
         clouds planting wings on
       the ground giving free will
          to plants to seed the sky  
           with warmth and love
                of nature's heart.

For my morning run, it rains again.
I run into town every morning anyway.
Some day they'll be flooding, I think, when
the rain realizes it won't stop my foray.
Oddly, no one in this town would blame me then.
I think that's what keeps me on my merry way.

It's hard to step out of my sunny shell, and let the rain soak my hide.
Yet I'll keep smiling when it rains; that means once again I made it outside.

I will fall down upon the mat, my breathing coming in ragged gasps.
I will fail to reach the peak, and I will lay me down in drained defeat.
Yet what a clamorous, shouting climb it was that heralded my fall.
Tomorrow my voice will rise a second time in another raucous, screaming call.

I will fail once more today, just as I did yesterday.
My muscles will contort and strain, yet my sigh but reports the first refrain.
Greater is the joy of having fought, far more so than losing's sorrow.
Isn't it a beautiful failure I've wrought that lets me get up again tomorrow?