I wonder sometimes,
When I let my mind out to play,
On a late night drive
And when I close my eyes.

What happens when we die?
If life’s a game no matter how hard we try?
Is it a shame I smile when I ought to cry?

Life speaks in whips and chains
And sometimes in sweet summer breeze.
Disease reeks,
And I believe death speaks to me.

If there was an answer to these lines of poetry,
Perhaps there would be peace.
Mystics and priests,
Offer no lasting reprieve.

The poet of relief,
Speaks of the heart’s needs.
Jester of despair,
Bringing comical release.

I wonder sometimes,
Of the mystics, poets, jesters and priests.
What tonight will be,
Will my wonderings find relief.

I’m not going to be famous
selling strawberries
writing poems
or preaching till we perish
especially, not through
this poem
your poem
or any we may cherish
considering the pressure I am under
and the number
of one more follower
to follow me
while I’m following your poetry
I may write and write I do
because like you I like them too
and though they may be the best
I know I can be my worst critic
whether I loathe or I like it
I wont lay my pen to rest
with my words and ways
till then, I’ll have my own novels read
and applaud my own plays
and be famous
in my own head

This spoon is bigger than my plate
these green peas are bigger than your mouth
like the big words that are bigger than this conversation
It’s making this evening hard to swallow
your big eyes are bigger than my lies
and this lie is bigger than the both of us
you tell me to be the bigger man
now here I am

I dug a trench
to keep you close
growing the hedges
with rope and hose
I filled a moat
to keep you in
a buoy, no boat
if you tried to swim
I planted flowers
bushes, no tree
lest you could climb
and found you free
I paved a road
there you cut a path
far from the garden
away from my arms
now I’m building a bridge
across a sad sea
if you ever decide
to come back to me.