My Notebook,
How I miss you,
And our daily conversations.
I miss the way I clothed you.
Not with outfits,
But with words for all to see and hear.
I miss how it felt,
The continuous flick of the wrist
After each word I would write
And how the way each one
Made me feel just a bit smarter.
You were the canvas,
And for once something in my life
Felt absolutely beautiful.
I miss the adventures
We went on together
And The constant foes and heroes
That we met along the way.
And the millions of people we birthed,
Who's lives are still yet to be written.
I miss the way that I was responsible
For what happened in your world,
When I have no control in mine.
And your lines, so neat and straight
Blending in with every cursive word.
The way the pen touched the paper
Was a thing of such majesty.
And like artists, a poets job
Is to make the world a bit more beautiful
One letter at a time.

A kindred spirit in a dying hour
Such a fate is not my theme!
For a life deprived of an earthly pow'r
On Earth only hope is found in dreams!

Still, I can hope
Though that word since from me departed
Hope is a thing of a passing hour
And desire has left me broken hearted

Desire! What is desire
But the things in life so undeserved
What then if not desire
Has life been better served?

They were learning how to hate,


     And they were loving every minute.

Life is the ultimate mystery. It has no purpose until we create one.

Do I really want to fully figure out
What life is all about?

Not really. Why?

It would take away the rest of the mystery.

If I figured out what I want to do in life,

I wouldn't have time to make new dreams.

Why should brotherhood divide,
As a tree from lightning, strikes?
A break of dawn, a thrash of wave
And love to our fellow man
We so boldly gave.

Why should brotherhood divide,
Will a man with you for a mile, stride?
Through the blazing heat, through the bracing cold
Should the love for man grow old?

Why should brotherhood divide,
Taking oaths, and choosing sides?
Both the old and new, the many the few
Even death will have it's due


Tis the flash of light, the blink of an eye
From mans first breath, to where he lies
Why oh why should brotherhood divide?

I'm born in the wrong generation
And I'm fine with that.
While others are
Keeping up with the Kardashians
I'm busy keeping up with the Jones'.
While others are
Listening to the new album
I'm listening to music
From a jukebox inside my mind.
I remember the 50s well,
Even though I was born forty years later.
I remember watching Jailhouse Rock
At the Drive in, inside of my living room.
The day the music died
I sat at home and cried.
There is an instant running of
"Let's Make A Deal," going on
Inside of my head.
And I can almost hear Dean Martin
Roasting Don Rickles.
Around this time, **** Van ****
Is tripping over furniture,
While Ricky is coming home to Lucy.
Or was it all just a dream that I had?