Each day
i look at the skies
it keeps me in my place
just this man in the human race
a race that can not be won
and on those days i feel sad
but have to just start again
as each and every day i do
this is just how i am
Each Day.

I walked down a silver path
silver was the moon, he told me
‘silver is money, I’ve got that’
‘silver is your eyes,’ I told him

I smelled a daffodil
I thought,
but the bright yellow mess was just a ****
nicely dressed

there were shrubs, planted firmly
I thought
until the harsh spring rain
uprooted them in a quick fit

I walked through the night,
dancing
watching the stars, I thought
they danced with me

he watched me,
watching the sky
‘kiss the stars for me,’ he told me
and I did

colours, lights, feeling
and sight
indistinguishable
in the silver moonlight

I was led, then
to an inevitable dawn
and cast into
the golden sun

as an infant born of a silver womb
I thank him for keeping me
warm at night
and I thank him for letting me go

The flicker of a bulb lights the rearview mirror.
A car stands motionless behind the laundromat.
The occupants make hollow love,
Searching for what is lost in the sea of humanity
And the localized cloud of buildings.
Their bodies curl in the back seat
And the streetlamp continues,
A silent metronome, blinking on
And off.

A hero
in his own consciousness
for the world that exists
only in his reveries.

A warrior
so vigilant and chivalrous
in the village
behind his eye lids.

A king
so kind yet mildly imperious
ruling all
inside his land of dreams.

A drowning member
of the proletariat class
humoring all
in the world he walks.

Go!
Find me a word.
A mono-syllabic word.
A word that is as independent
as a lone tree in a field,
the only shade around.

A word only modest,
never narcissistic,
that cannot bring pride
to the reader or writer
(as the word has the only right to the pride.)

A word that is self-specific
that cannot be mis-read
or mis-construed.
A word needing no explanation.
A word that is not an object;
neither a noun or a verb,
but always the subject.
A word so strong ,
yet always softly spoken.

A word that may float forever
when muttered aloud
that brings courage and inspiration
while you keep your feet on the ground.

When it's found,
I'd like to be that word.
Your word,
my word,
the world's word
with all of it's traits,
and known by nothing else.
That word will be me
and I will be that word,
and when I die
it should be the only word
written above my grave.

You sit drinking your cheap liquor,
and flat soda.
You wax your philosophical views
to anyone who listens.
"The problem," You say,
"is that no one cares."
Your slurring thoughts are truly
a voice of a generation.

It seems that after
Thousands
Of words
Hundreds of thousands
Of expressions
My fount has
Finally
Dried up
Maybe it’s hormonal…
(cuz this happens)
Or
Maybe I’m depressed… and
Need some ice-cream
(cuz ice-cream always makes things better)
But
I just don’t feel like writing anything at all…
No thing inspires me
To expound upon it
Can’t even seem to write
A bad poem
Unless I count this one
And I don’t
But I do admit
It is bad
So I will re-start
This bad non-poem
And not talk about
Hormones or depression or ice-cream
(even tho ice-cream always makes things better)
I’ll not expound upon
How I am un-inspired
To ever again
Wax poetic…
But will instead merely query~
Has my fount
Truly
Dried up?