they are all asleep
and I sneak under cover
of the lateness of the hour
to the comfort of my words
scrawled across a page in ink
from the nib of a fountain pen
they search for a target
I'll never achieve
on a journey through my head
reaching for perfection
I am tired by a world
always demanding more
than I'm prepared to give
always asking for more
than I could possibly have
but this moment is at least mine
stolen from the clock of life

I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever be satisfied in my life time
But until then
I will keep writing

Pretty things fare well
Everyone loves pretty things
Pretty flowers, pretty houses, pretty faces
We don't visit ugly places
The under belly, the blood, the snot
Perhaps ugly things are best forgot
Pretty, it fades if we see it each day
Fresh eyes wouldn't focus on the magnitude of decay
But the slight beauty that grows around
Well, that would be found right away

I used to write proses unbothered by rules,
Poems with no assurance of being read,
Words just written to be free.

Now am I one of fools?
Fearing what comes out of my head?
Afraid of what others see?

Is this the curse of technicality?
Of knowing more about reality?
Bluff is that age comes with clarity.

Here is my **** to hell I send,
Existing is tiring year by year,
Is there anything more to feel?

I am far from the end.
But I wish I am near.
I have nothing time can steal.

They wrote me off
so I wrote myself in