The little man stood upon a hill, for it was all he could climb,
He lived upon the low land and his world was built on rhyme
All his words found a way to touch each other and cry
When tears were not the daily plan then words became so wry.
He stood upon his hill, with his small and battered hands,
wishing for the ocean view and the feel of burning sands.
The sun was just above him and stars were there at night,
but all the world around him seemed to block his sight.
Sometimes magic would arrive and touch his wounded soul,
but there was no constant answer, he was never to be whole.
Why stand upon the hill they say, there is no answer there
He would not give an answer, he knew they didn’t care.
Days go by as does the clock and all the blowing dust,
the world still changes colour, turning to bitter rust.
The little man on the hill watches it all in shame,
He sees that rhymes won’t cure the world, life is just a game.

if you were to
look
upon me
now

you’d find
my door
so
open

my hands
are busied in
writing

my mind
upon my
door

if you were to
look
upon me
now

you’d find
no one
in my door
frame

but watch me write,
and watch me live,
and watch me exist
with my door open

watch me write
a poem about it

and watch those offenders,
those defilers,
those vagrants,
mock and defame me
like a criminal and
a god

and if you were
to look upon me
now

while the wind
rolls dust on my
doorstep

you would find me
all alone
listening to the sounds
of “you’re a loner”

if you were
to look upon
me now

you would see a man
silently answer

“yes, I am a loner,
yes, I know that quite
well,

but there’s
nothing
I can do
when I sit in my
room
and only the wind
will talk to
me”