What are you trying to say,
Lately I've been asking myself.
It feels like my thoughts are too piled up
With only a feather to dust these shelves
Sweep these images off of my chest
Left scraping together this disorganized mess.
I'm having trouble with my fan base,
The trouble is I don't have a fan base.
Stuck in a position of not knowing what I want to be,
I know who I am, now let's look past me.

I've been debating religion and stuck in an uncomfortable position
Of calling most the church goers hypocrites
Only following the rules when the shoe fits
Then gossip in the back of the pew
about a man with more struggles than you
Hung up on other's demons, while pretending to smile
We send them to a mental trial, tell the next person
Next you leave them exiled, pulling some godly ranks.
Ask me to come to that place, I'll say no thanks.

It's another lakeshore day, it's another late night
Taking a breath of the wild at 2 am through dim light.
Sitting in the same room, with a little time to type
I'm stuck in my thoughts but unable to know what to say
So I'll leave this on an ironic tone
Yesterday, my father wished me a happy father's day.
But his knowledge of me stands unknown.

What makes me devoted
Not always getting promoted
In fine Robin, print birds fly
noted
Not voting Presidential win
The polls are in we become
scapegoated
We are forced into things
Footnoted
To achieve what do we really
believe
I believe in me
The darkness appear's in so
many forms stand firm with
Any specific term

But the beauty, Divinely terrific,
lovely___me
Goes with the territory
Shows the love and fury
Me my story the flower the
morning glory
Staying clear of guilty as sin
I as myself truly sincere
I am not about the win

love to write wearing the
pledge pin
Be innocent showing I care
But this world we must beware
All over the website things
that drive me
Perfume sweet fresh me
The Eager me
The singer is me
Not the jealous me
Over every singer I see
I am the Zealous me
I am passionate that's me
The avid card reader
The clicker far from the
pretender
A poem is the world hands
extend
He is carrying me

On time or who cares
if I am late
Robin her wing lengths
To so many heights
That's why I love to sing

You're a painter with brush
My face isn't worth painting

You're a writer with pen
My story isn't worth writing

You're a poet with soul
My umbra isn't worth rhyming

You're a photographer with camera
My appearance isn't worth capturing

You're a director with 35mm
My action isn't worth watching

You're the artist
I am the creative block

Help me to find peace

Help me to find purpose

Help me to find afresh

Help me to find forgiveness

Help me to find faith

Help me to find inspiration

Help me to find art

Help me to find love

Help me to find You

Jehovah Jireh.

*crowned saint

Black roses scattered along blank pages
Coffee cup is half-empty and in need of a refill
Dawn is about to break, but I haven’t slept
Flowers placed by the window are wilting
Goodbye, let’s continue tomorrow

it begins with a decanter of Rimbard
add 2 parts Villon
and 1 part Catullus
throw a jigger of Whitman
and a pony shot of D. Thomas
put in 3 dashes of Kerouac,
Ginsberg and Burroughs
add a splash of Cummings
for flavor and a float of Rumi,
shake well and pour into the
Nebauchadnezzar of D.H Lawrence
while intermixing Hemingway with
a kick of Yeats and Keats from the
oar stirrers of Celine and Pound,
drop in a few ice cubes of Thompson,
cold and solid and a bendy straw of
Carruth with garnish from Li Po and a
cocktail umbrella of Fante to decorate
and call this mixology a Bukowski
and raise the drink high
and pour it down fast
to honor the dying light
from the struggles of
writers before us and
to help us get through
the moil and toil that
holds us back from
what we truly want
within our guts because
I find living, drinking,
smoking, *******, reading
and writing to be difficult
as it is but breathing
should be the hardest
thing you'll have to do
under this dead moon night