Writers
Block
And
Heartache
Seem
To
Go
Hand
In
Hand

If you spend more time listening
And less time talking
You'll spend less time running
And more time walking
Looking in the mirror is bad for your health
Look to the world for true beauty and wealth

We have other
cowboys in the
dining room
**** the

Dreaming of woman from increasingly distant spaces
Breathing their faintly fading pheromones
Cleverly placed upon my pillow
While I am away fighting the battles of great men's children
Clear visions of life times spent with women outlined in millions of withering suns
All balanced on a thin wire waxing and waning between unexplainable happiness and impenetrable sadness
Feelings so strong that upon awakening
Eyelash size bits of me are left behind

(With the dropping grains of sand in a hour glass
So to one day my entire being will be left behind)

"Most poetry books are a waste of paper"
(I know)

What flowers beauty
Holds my attention
Your
Breathing
Grasps
My
perplexion
The shadows
Of lovers
Left aside
For hearts are beating
And need not hide
I need not look
To sky or sea
For beauty sits
In front of me

Your smell saturates my surroundings
Small memories unknowingly attached to insignificant items
Gliding threw this fog
I find them
Small  
Sharp
Insignificant
Deadly

I met a man
He was eating his own heart
I asked him if it tasted good
He only looked at me for a second
And continued to eat
He paused half way threw and said
"Blood and only blood turned the wheels of time, and I am a master of my own."
Waste of a good heart if you ask me

All lives end
Quickly
All hearts are broken
Softly
All dreams are touched
Briefly
All questions answered
Once
Every angel
Reached
Every secret
Whispered
Every idea
Put in its place
The wheel turns
Nothing is ever new

sitting sideways
seeing small scenes
unfold to an unknown
group of
(face in hands-elbows on knees)
nobodies
there stomachs sickeningly jerking
in a simple rhythm
methods of subduing this
illness are unknown
still there is no point to let it
go to waste

There is a coat on my door
To whom it belongs to at this point is uncertain
But it is there
There is room here
How much can be put in this space is unknown
But there is room
There is words on pages in books on shelfs in my room
I am not too clear on how they got there
There is a certain sweetness to salt
But I can't quit describe it