When you write,
What do you offer?

Life to the lifeless
Power to the powerless
Voice to the voiceless
Love to the unloved?

Or are you
Simply
In need of all that too.

May our creative words become seeds that blossom in poem for YOU the readers mind.

May our flowing verse become like stream so YOU drift gracefully.

May our colorful jargon become like a painting so YOU have visions clear.

May our penman gifts engage YOU to see with new eyes.

May our abilities to etch scrpted words upon vellum inspire YOU.

And may we as scribes provide insights so YOU the reader can launch your dreams.

It's clear that I have lost friends
That's what fire in your soul and the resulting fearlessness brings
I don't have a lot of intelligent open minded people rifling through my works or giving them the attending  or attention they deserve. They might overlook the irony sarcasm, wit or inherent fairness that is so carefully crafted into endless themes. Sometimes a social leveler, others a defensive maneuver of a wounded animal or all out aggressive neutralizing campaign. Regardless, I never wrote for any of them, I wrote for me.
They were just lucky I let them see.

- The SS

Left me for someone better
He didn’t knew
I became the best
The day he left!!

We were together-Not by hearts-But by bodies

Diana was a dreamer.
She wished to sail away
On a sailboat made of reverie
To let her mind wander.
"Why, sail away?" you ask,
"It's such a bad cliché!
Writer, writer,
Be more original", you say.
But no, I can't, see:
This Diana wished to sail
And if you disbelieve that
She's surely destined to fail.
Diana wished to sail far,
For she knew she couldn't fly
(And talk of cliché!)
But she knew to sail a boat.
Why sail, why, it's easy:
If you knew no other escape
Wouldn't you take that route?
If you could fly, you'd fly.
So she could sail
And that, she did.
You'll notice, here,
I haven't told you why
Or where she chose to sail.
Well, I don't know!
Are you surprised?
Gosh, I didn't ask her where!
She just up and left,
But I know she's happy there.

The sailboat in question
Is a sight for sore lies:
Sails of soft green
And gold like her eyes.
It smells of the sea
And all that is sweet
And under those sails
Is such a lovely retreat.
This boat, while lovely
Requires much care:
No assembly required,
But imagination and flair
Are what makes this boat run
For, it's imaginary, of course
And only Diana can see this sailboat;
In her mind, forever, it'll be.

i use to think that the world was my oyster
until I remembered that i am as important
as i am useless.
the sun doesn't color the sky for my pleasure
and the air sure as hell doesn't arrive for my survival.
the universe still gives me reasons to be alive
but it doesn't give me the reasons why i should live.
theories upon theories
suggesting that one isn't cursed
to anything immortal
while another suggest that
the endless stretch of the universe
was made for absolutely nothing.
it is human to seek for meaning
and it is human to accept the impossibility of finding any.
but the glass will always be full of something
and maybe in a year or so, i'll be sure of this.
for now, i'll let the air speak
"it will be fine."