... And so, the cycle begins a new,
How shallow I feel not here with you.
Lies I tell myself to sleep at night
Toss and turn, you were my only light.
Here I sow with another.
She tries but yet I still feel smothered.
Empty inside it seems to feel
Every day is a battle that I'm trying to heal.

Stagnate in the most disposition of this life,
Slowly turning the **** to shut the door behind.
Where the sound of the smacking metal clicks
And the cycle of stagnation continues again.
Is this my doing, my incarnation bring?
Is this my slow trending’s doing?
Now, awaken the beast inside,
For since the time of preadolescent
Which I had no control over.
Vulnerable to have foreseen the truth
That this beast will emerge once again.
Devouring the mind’s weak spots
Leaving no trace of my humanity insight.
For this life was better off with the door closed
And possibly never seeing that light shine.
For no door is worth opening to or whom—
Stagnate in the most disposition of this life.

What was that about ironic?


(sonnet #MMMMDCXLII)


They swore I should be published when my frail
Attempts proved that my alphabet was thence
Down pat, a couple verbs and nouns from whence
I made a twisted bit of nonsense, pale
And certain notes that I owned more than bail
For their now wasted cries of sheer pretense,
Nor would they quiet down 'til their defense
Was trounced when I could speak and **** the tale.
Yes.  Now that I trip off much less obscure
Lines, even sentences which march straight to
The point, I've lost my following as twere.
Come, did they like the early babble?  Few
Can make it past the toddling stage, whence fer
The grand achievement, I'm alone.  Boohoo.


(sonnet #MMMMDCXLIII)


Please don't say either that I was from hence
Givn this quite fair, though transient gift's detail
To hone its more exquisite sense in pale
Excuse for being alone, nor that twas thence
Deemed fit cuz twould be yet destroyed (whose sense
Of worth was fragile in sheer truth's betrayl),
But grant me something more, as if for bail,
And say that love will pay for my intents.
Walk through the library amassed as twere;
Yea, listen as my spirit filters through
The tapestry of lines, until in poor
Reply its voice half alters subtly too.
Did I leave innocence behind?  Twas your
Fault who taught me what life is:  loving you.

06Mar15e,f

sigh* a day later, when Saturday's mad pile of work was a memory, it literally tasted like water.  Now, how did that happen?  



(sonnet #MMMMDCXLIV)


Mists waft with curious fragrance' odd detail
Upon the creamy surface of those scents'
Brown claim of coffee in my mug, to fence
Thin hope with old chagrin as morning's pale
Light watches from its cloudy vantage' scale
Of truth, where ghostly layers shift oer pretense
And grey asks white to call it blue from thence,
My breakfast:  ***** dishes 'hind th'exhale.
It's nat'nal cereal day, so in a poor
Excuse I added Malt-O-Meal to do
The favours with our wonted pancakes, fer
A whopping stack of edibles.  Yes, two
Eggs, bacon, and a touch of fruit.  If you're
Still hungry, there's no coffee.  I love you.

07Mar15a

Tell me once. Tell me again, I wasn't listening.
Move your mouth. Speak again,
I wasn't watching or listening.
Typically when tongues lash, mine is still.
Typically on a night out, it's better to stare.
Whispered our shouted,
who cares? Who cares?

Composed while I worked, it is choppier than my mental version, sadly.  (My pet desire...)



(sonnet #MCMLXIX)


I've wanted to nourish love within these lines,
That thence the beauty of the mind, if't be
Such excellence to prove, yet how few see
Who say, "her coy reserve but half aligns
With that pink mini skirt--" as who divines
I actually think? might herein shine while we
Delve those far deeper wells my modesty
Or flirting glance, my pretty face, none mines?
Hence, Dearest, know that I write truly, nor
Am merely bandying words your touch would feign
Get thus the better of, when I adore
The way you think, the subtle cords that gain
My heart and set on fire, which I'd deplore
To outright say.  And still, I want that strain.

11Feb13a

Writers always write about the same things.  Here's to mangoes. A change of pace.  A new color.       New spacing.  
Bright yellow and a dash of green.
        Skin pulled tight in a grin.
    Fruit in the basket.
It's the home you always wanted.  The cherry on top?  The cat's in the bag.
The lights fade on the scene.  Writers always write the same things.

I look a little bit like a drug addict
(Old hoodie, bags under my eyes)
In a days mascara,
And last night messy bun.
My hands are shaking,
But not from drugs.

All black is normal,
Less then semi formal,
I guess you could say my out matches my in today.

I hear her
In the way the wind rustles through the trees
In the noise of the sea rushing to the shore

I see her
In the blue of the sky I find her eyes
In all the beauty of the trees and forests

I feel her
In the warmth of this drink I consume
In the emptiness that consumes me

I love her
With every fiber of my soul
With all I have to give

I love her.