The red roses now lay
Dead on the ground
The violets have withered away
On the wings of wind,
The love that once was there
Will never be
The girl who I was,
Is lost to,
A ghost I never thought I'll see

The poetry pages
Now lay tattered
and torn on the floor,
The writer's pen is also gone
The ink running inside
his vein has dried,
Somewhere he is lost in his suffering and plight

There is a kind of lost
That is never found
A darkness so profound,
There is no scope for hope
A void so vast,
No sound can get through

The mirror now lays
Broken on the bed,
The broken reflections reflects the brokenness inside her heart
Being so young, she should not
But she already fell in love with the company
Melancholia brings

The dimly lit room,
Absorbs all the light the window lets in,
How much more breaths
Before he blends in,
And becomes one with the darkness
That surrounds him

He is not giving up,
but maybe he will give in,
It is so peaceful once
you hit the rock bottom
You can finally lay in peace
With no one calling out your name
No one calling out your name,
**With no care in the world
You can finally be

I woke up contemplating bourbon and bitters.
Pu-Erh, with local honey, has always been more sensible.
It is warm and it heals a hoarse throat.

After two bags and a little Marquez, I sat at my desk staring at a spider in the opposite corner of my office.

I stared at it for a length of time that is too embarrassing to mention and never once had the inclination to smash it.
Not that it did not deserve it, I simply lacked the motivation.

It occurred to me that I would not trade a deep sleep under the sunlit blinds for a week's pay. How long can one get away with this?
For as long as one's wit will float them is my guess.

No one knows exactly how they want to be perceived when their ego barges into a room, but they know exactly how they do not want to be perceived.

But If I had the power, I would perceive being wanted.
To know I am here on purpose. What does that feel like?

If Hell is my fate for my living sins, then let me die in the arms of the woman that lit the fire within!

When I'm amongst the great race, brooding over my artisanal mug-of-joe, the constant chatter and open planning of the day becomes a spoken roar and I want to scream out, "Keep it down, I'm trying to plan my escape!"

What do I associate with happiness? My dad pouring M&M;'s into my mouth before a football game. Of course, I won't play, but one must be prepared!
The look on my mother's face when I sang well. Getting picked first in a game of pick-up. All the fellas whispering legends.

Ah, to be wanted!

Of late, the pain in my torso has become more persistent. I think of it and my imagination gives way to bouts of sheer panic.

And even this is not an excuse for concern and a peaceful night.
How about a kiss on my neck and chest for a change?
Must I always make you hot?
What if this is my last stand?
What if this is it?

In that final glimpse of consciousness, in my minds eye, all I make out is a faint light far above me and the brown soil and rock digging into my feet below.
What walls did I allow to be built all around me?

help me find the paper
with the poem i need
it's a simple piece of paper
with a poem that must be freed
i am asking for my readers
not for want or greed
help me find the paper
and what i write...you'll read

right now, there's nothing on it
it's as empty as can be
i looked inside my closet
and no paper did i see
i found one under a bonnet
but, it wasn't one for me
the missing poem might be a sonnet
can't you help me find it please

the words i have aren't in my head
it's the paper brings them out
until the pen hits paper
i don't know what it's about
once the poem is finished
i can then stand up and shout
i found the piece of paper
this is the one.....no doubt

help me find the paper
with the poem i need
it's a simple piece of paper
with a poem that must be freed
i am asking for my readers
not for want or greed
help me find the paper
and what i write...you'll read

To be a good writer or a poet
You have to be good at wearing shoes other than your size
Size 1, 2, 3, up to size 10
Even if it falls off your feet or too tight, you just have to try

Not only shoes, also all other kinds of footwear
From socks, sandals, flip flops, and slippers
High-heeled, boots, flippers and sneakers
Even barefooted, if there's nothing else to wear

Then, walk with it, run with it
Feel the calluses and feelings it brings
Up until its soles are wearing thin
Then, write the experience

Jeffery Brown, reporting the news every night
Looks at the world through multiple lens, and writes
Poetry from a layer of glass glued to a layer of glass
Which has separated slightly.  Magnifications at last
Divided and shared as divvied-out treats.

http://video.pbs.org/video/2365488825/

There is this deep, evasive emptiness
that never ceases to lack control.
That conquers and escapes,
that stirs quiet chaos in my soul.

And there is this voice of vacant words,
which implore me to find structure instead.
But the broken writer cannot rebuild.
The unabridged poet is dead.

And I look at this self pity,
embodied in this girl.
And I have no inclination-
no desire
to be her.