smoke lingered throughout the air
illuminating my father’s face
and shadowing my mother’s
the bud of the cigarette catching fire
the somberness of this second fading in the distance
a memory being erased
the screams gone silent
her hysterical tears scrubbed harshly from her face
the look of shock smeared from mine
but father stayed still
through the cries he stayed still
and he let the moonlight trickle in through the window
reflecting off of his watch
the seconds ticking into minutes
and transitioning into hours.

we sit for hours in silence
in grief, torment, misery
letting the sound of shuddered breath
and last drags of cigarettes
ghostly wisps in the air
fill the room.

If I die today
I leave you
just the words
I wrote and
whispered
softly to you.
Know that
I meant
what I said.

Finding words
I can live with
and leave
on the page
is that moment
when the sun
breaks through
the clouds on
a rainy day.

I close my eyes
and smile. I
can’t help
but smile.

I write because
I have to.
There is no rhythm or reason.
My poetry isn't for you
half the time
it isn't even for me.
It just is.

Once in a while
the hands from the "chosen" gods of
allpoetry.com
will deem me worthy
to grace the stage
of "front page"
Where all the big wigs of the site
get flowers
their proverbial ***** stroked
and told how pretty they are.

Poems like mine don't get chosen much.
I have to be
literally *******
the picker
to get one of my
mediocre writes
displaced for
a few hundred
or thousand views
some likes and of course
DMs from boys.

There are times such as today
where my writes get taken off of "pending picks"
The God of this land finds my words to be too offensive.
Asking what do certain metaphors mean
and my formating is wrong.
I make my own words "weak"
That the word *******, is
too strong.
To that
I light my nightly cigar
and the urge to burn
my page down
is fighting
with the cats and possums
clawing into each other's back
between the shed and old fence.

To hell with
modest clothes
that cover full breast.
**** the short skirts I wear
and the boots that I could very easily kick your teeth in with.

If you want poetry
about babbling brooks,
tall red wood trees
and metaphors you can
sing to your
small child at night
while her father
slams down
another empty can of beer
hoping to not wake
up in a bed of his own ****
in the morning.
That won't be misplaced here.


Dear reader
my poetry
isn't for you.
Neither is it
front page
"worthy"
I write about
depression
***
cheating
loneliness
being ******* over.
About being
Bi polar
and all the
******* pills I
have to take
to let me sit
near the "normal crowd"
and if that's not what you want to read.
then go **** yourself
*******.

Writing for me
is not an art but
a discipline that
requires time
and the right
frame of mind,
some coffee,
and a clear desk
(okay, I’m a little
OCD).

A sip, a prayer,
a good fountain pen
and the juices
begin to flow.
Then the cat jumps
in my lap just as I
get in a groove
and progress ceases
as the purrs set in.

She’s ambivalent,
even indolent
until the gods
or vagaries
that rule my
creative processes
come together
then she jumps
in my lap and
is my anti-muse.

She always times
it just right
so that a few
minutes with her
and the purrs
get me off track
for an hour
or more.

Here she comes
now
and
there
goes
my
writing
for another day.

Almost 600 poems,
On my way to 700,
Yet some how,
I haven’t written the same thing twice.

(Ignore the sunset poems)

howcanibetogether    but    alone     at        the         same          time?

Death comes at any time,
Maybe tomorrow or even tonight.
One day they're here then "****!" they're gone.
So say "I love you" before it's too late.

What is beauty
Is it that perfect skin
What is beauty
But that perfect body
What is beauty
But happiness
But I give it the *******
The fact about beauty is that
It causes a walking skeleton of
Our daughter
The fact about beauty is that
Boys pump themselves
With steroids
The suffering that beauty brings
I see
Soon, I will have it the
*******