Help me,
I'm drowning.

Nobody see's me,
I'm invisible.

There was no air to breathe,
there was nobody listening,
I was all alone.

The darkness pull me down,
and the light slowly slipped away.

I didn't take a chance nor I try
because nobody could save me,

except myself.

like a good poet, I whine and whinny:

the muses are unreliable, get too much paid vacation,
unlimited unpaid, and pretend their cells are out of range,
even when they are in bed with you and you’re near desperate
to cop a feel of inspiration

my problem is a variation on the theme. Everyday I jot down
too many possibilities, a handful of words added to the list of
pound bound childless titles, sad faced orphans, dogs and cats,
squeaking “pick me, pick me,”
our reply a casual
“you on the list” rather than admit they are titled, but bodiless
until cupid smashes a cupcake in my face and the bell rings

there they stand - at a friendless crossroads - direction home,
path unknown, awaiting a poet tour guide to complete them

if this sounds a bit like a bad achy breaky country song,
then you and I, on the same side of where I could be headed

cause at the friendless crossroads, always unsure, left foot first?  that first line, first step, could be a false messiah,
or a free-at-last, a free-at-last emancipation

but there are no sidelines in a forest there no sidelines in a poet’s mind; there are the minefields of mindfulness that can explore explode and explain why it is tempting to believe that every gifted one deserves a break today

but you cannot be broken or break off from the community

“Hillel said: Do not separate yourself from the community; and do not trust in yourself until the day of your death. Do not judge your fellow until you are in his place. Do not say something that cannot be understood but will be understood in the end. Say not: When I have time I will study because you may never have the time”

my friend,
substitute writing poetry for study, for study is for us the analysis of everything, that is, everything we say, see and know the need to communicate

so
those who abide in the life of good words will not suffer an abdication (yours)

do not think
there are friendless crossroads,
there are only crossroads that the eye cannot yet see a fellow sojourner coming toward him,
bearing an oversized load of
the inside insight of responsibility
that demands sharing

that is why we call our meetings at
a crossroads,
a cross

Running after ghosts of the past,
whilst stepping on glass shards,
you spend your days chasing the next high,
not knowing that you’re getting caught in the lies.

Like a spider that
meticulously weaves
and endlessly plots,
you take your strides cautiously,
yet still with a hint of mischievous spontaneity.

But the train tracks ahead of you
that are littered with rocks
and the crunch of footsteps behind that mocks even you,
never falters, never ceases.
You pace yourself as though you're running,
but all you're really doing is falling.

You’re drowning in quicksand,
making waves in the pits.
Distressed cries; not knowing where you’d land.
You wait to see if anyone will save you,
not knowing that all you ever needed was yourself.

Do you not see, do you not hear?
That your heart is hurting?

Its asking you to love yourself a little more,
to let your guard down and soar,
to bless yourself with change,
although it may be strange (to you).

This life is an endless journey of self growth,
charted by fate, and
accompanied with love,
but only when you let it happen,
will it make you great again.