When your patience wears short,
And the day seems too long...
When the night's first report
Sings a disappointing song...
You'll want to leave your ship of port,
And I'll remind you:
You are wrong.

Fickle be the weather,
For though the wind seems too strong,
Save your vigil for the sunrise
And don't believe that I am gone,
Because I'm here, and I will tell you,
Stay your sails,
For you are wrong.

It is a difficult decision,
Without crew to spur you on,
To depart on frigid waters
And ignore the siren's song.
You may fear that I'm not with you.
You may feel that I don't miss you.
...but here's my only issue:
You are wrong,
You are wrong!

It's an oxymoron:
A blind man's vision,
Rehabilitative prison,
The poor politician.
It's an oxymoron:
Assisted suicide,
The creation of destruction,
The modest man's pride.

Her fingers dance along the keys.
Delicately at first, then with more conviction,
As she grows more assured.
"Something inside this one is broken," she says,
The disappointment plain on her face.

Then she moves on.

After a time, sometimes a day,
Sometimes more,
Another comes by,
Finding the notes to her dislike.
"This tone is not where it should be."

And like all the others,
She moves on.

The instrument has been there waiting
For a long time.
When the shop closes,
And no one comes to peruse,
I sit down with myself,
And strike the chords aloud.
They sound beautiful to my ears,

As my heart-strings always do.

To those of you who know me,
You know me not at all.
To those of you who don't:
These are my beacons in the fog.
These words have been my anchor.
They've been there to break my falls.
I've illustrated my escapes
From within these empty walls.
On these pages are the prices
That I've paid for life's surprises.
I've lain waste to pens revising,
Re-copying, refining.

Not all of it is exciting,
Nor sad, or uninviting,
But I gain pleasure from these words,
And from the simple act of writing.

And so for this I'm pleading,
And maybe even needing:
Take pleasure from these words,
And the simple act of reading.

Nature sees what nature sees,
And nature does what nature does.
Minds believe in memories
And sometimes hearts believe in love.
When hearts and minds do both agree,
Conceived are dreams converged as one,
But love of life and logic leaves
Our livelihoods left out of luck.

Deceived are these who dream of things
Composed of money, grease, and blood:
Mechanical beings, with cogs and springs,
Like clockwork do this planet run.
In tightened shifts, devices click,
And slowly start to smog the sun,
But smoke and fog made synthetically,
How many does this bother? None.
Machines, you see, they do not breathe
The air they leave beneath for us.
They call this craft their politics,
And leave us here to pay in blood.
One by one, by one, we wonder,
Where the humans lost their love.

When will men begin to see
What nature sees how nature does?

I hear the moon is nice
This time of year,
And since it lacks an atmosphere,
There would be no storms to fear.
Sunny days and vistas clear...
I bet I could see my house from there!
Just leave the doors of the house shut tight,
And live alone, there in the night,
With all the world, there in my sight.
I'd have the view to keep me right,
And stars as friends to salve my plight.
Whirling 'round in endless flight,
I'd dance with Earth in points of light,
'Til Earth and Moon next reunite.

Rise and make haste
To the display of human waste!
Stand amazed at the hate
That I deserve in my disgrace!
I have taken
What is precious,
And I've given it to waste.
I destroyed
What is dear
In a fit of sightless rage.
This scrabbled page
Is all I have
From our halcyon days.
I know for sure,
That forever,
Life will never be the same.

I am ashamed.