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I will speak interms of confusing metaphors and allegorical descriptors
for You will never know what I mean,
and I will never know what I mean,
all You and I will ever know is what is said

Beyond that thou art which is not
Who I am and what I am is anybody's guess,
Where I am is in poetry,
when I am is poetry
How and why I am is a poet.
an artist chosen by this art

A puppet of words that string me along,
That dangle my reflection on the scene.

and What's this scene?
The dream of this stage, an age to redeem this day, this momentary cage of sound and phonetics, playing on the morphemes, that sort these informants into proteins that fire the works of this neural chemistry.

A cosmic tapestry... And I've lost the plot of this pointless exercise in passing the time as I pass this chime down to the last rhyme.
With no point but a line, a single continuous line that's only sometimes audible.
With no beginning and no end but always a middle.
A halfway mark between now and then

Half and half all the way to infinity,
Trapped in this trinity plus one.
The subject, the object and the verb plus all the fillers in between,
Adding the jective into obviously obnoxious obstancy.

Abstracting words from subtracting the colors of birds...
Man I really don't know when to stop.
Nor does he, when he spots the plot that keeps the inserting eye from searching the skys to admiring this fly.
Zipping in and out of space, never able to pin it down between his chopsticks.
So maybe I should stop this
Right here, left now and take flight,
Tata bye.
These are my words,
That is all I have,
My words,
There's nothing much I can do with them beyond,
The fact that they are my words,
Words in every which way and direction
But they are only just words,
I can't say more than, that these are my words,
It's like saying these are my *****,
That's all there is,
Cats in the kitchen,
Dogs in the den,
And words in my pen,
Is all the words I have.

I will go on about words,
And word a worded string of wordy words,
Pointing to more words, about the words
In Sen ten sing the moment.
With only more wording,
Wording my way around the tongue twisting,
Rugged rocks,
Around which I ran these words.

Death in these words I find,
Of words that fly in rhyme,
For the well organized mind,
said Dumbledore,
Death is the next great adventure.

So death of time,
A moment in time,
As the charcoal crumbles,
In embers of the fire place,
To lace up those shoes,
And dry up your face,
As you try in this race,
Foot toe and land,
Arches and soles in arcs untold,
Tales of old,
For they unfold,
To behold, the mold of a worn out idea,
Scrambling around ikea,
More furniture than choice can bear,

You there, you stare facing the fact that these are words,
They're just words wording their way a long
In formation,
Formed in the foundation,
Of the crustacean,
Serotonergic endocrine **** sapien.  

You were warned,
Wordy words, like thirsty birds that sing by the pond,
Or squawk at the wondering herd,
A floundering scourge,
Casting the turn of the word,
Spelling a wizards wand in firm,
Hands that squirm.

Wands carved from the branches of falling words,
As they tunnel through the synapse,
Into the time lapse,
words that take up time and space,
Without the forethought for time and place,
Or rhyme and grace. just the chase,
The chase of words tailing words.

Hold your marks,
Get set ready,
And they're off, racing dogs out the gates,
High tailing it down the tracks,
Number four nudging ahead of the pack,
A smooth burst of sprinting acceleration,
Like sprouting leaves, of spring growing trees,
Time lapsed for precision contrast comparison.

Across the horizon and into the fly zone,
Switching direction at the swipe of a hand,
Key board hopping digital indexing,

Words that take the flip side of walking upright hips

You will see here, that.
Word over there,
This words over here,
Words from way back then,
Or words from in the now.
Maybe words to become.

Infinite motion in a limited space with experiential time at speeds of grace.
I am huddled in the coroner,
a little beast within a man,
And when at night he studies bodies,
I come out,
now and again.
Summer's gone
            leaves upon the lawn
Summers gone
            leaves upon the lawn
            a memory
Norman Crane Oct 6
riverside dusk
      daylight's pale remains
a sanctuary
The itching; affects, don't let 'em tell you otherwise
Stay Lost in the ink blots
I promise, It'll help you forget
We're all scared
We're all aware
but w continue keep it quiet.
We continue to hold I
what we should riot.
We attempt to itch away
what we cannot change..
and that just makes us uncomfortable.
But in that frustration I learn,
love doesn't exist without forgiveness.
But that still doesn't fix this!
So I drink away
my mangled brain
trading this pain
for dizziness
Filomena Oct 2
see through hardened panes
watching nature's ebb and flow
inside out snow globe
Psych ward poetry #3
Filomena Oct 3
living with kittens
naive, simple, and carefree
you can hear the mews
Psych ward poetry #6
Norman Crane Sep 30
our land of the free
mason dixon
lines of *******
cowboys and aliens
crossing the southern border
lands streaming on twitch
live and coming to you from the L.A.
end times
with your host
the ghost of this debt's
gotta come due sometime,
if that don't **** us
first come, first serve
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