A poet without a pen
Is
Like
A story without a character.

Long time ago
I kneeled to tell you
I love you madly.
I couldn't find a gift
But my innocent heart.
Today
You have left
I find it a real theft.
I need to love again
But in vain.
Because
You left without giving me back my
Innocent heart.

He spoke.
He cried.
Yes, men do shed tears from their eyes.
It doesn't make them weak.
Even when others come with be a "big man" speech.

His mom.
His dad.
His child or spouse has died.
Yes, men do shed tears from their eyes.

Like women, we feel pain inside.

A child is born.
Yes, he cries.
A miraculous happening occurs.
Yes, he cries.
Yes, men of men shed tears from their eyes.

But don't get it wrong.
We are still very strong.
A man is not weak because of a few tears.

When the agony
of dawn awakens
me.
I think of
drinking
***** to arouse
the muse from
her slumber.
But I don't;
instead, I slam
three cups of
coffee, hoping to
jolt the old
***** from her
lethargy.
If the caffeine
doesn't do the trick,
I grab a few of
our favorites:
Bukowski,
Neruda,
and Dylan Thomas.
I pace the floor
and read out loud.
Eventually, I feel her
begin to stir.
I yell,
"Is your fickle *** ready to work?"
And then the real day begins.
I know this sounds crazy,
but the muse and I
wouldn't have it any
other way.

I thought
My past was over
Forget it
It is dead.
My past is here
Its scars are everywhere
I lie if I tell you
I don't care.
My past is the only past
Resisting my present
And killing my future.
Every day is a stale past.
Even  a fake dream
Can not last
Today's tear
Is yesterday's pain.
Tomorrow's sigh
Is today's fear.