Vocal ingenuity
A generous gratuity
I wish could be removed from me
But I would still write poetry

--Which someone else would have to read
As from the page the inkblots plead
"Give us a voice!" the letters said
Without a voice they would be dead

But no-one reads my poetry
And so its voice is left to me
To show the World, or just to try
Be truly heard before I die

as the clock on the wall
like the leaves in the fall
caterpillars grow into butterflies
but your change only soaked my eyes

You changed
as the day into night
turned black from all white
women like a pink sunset
but your change left me with regret

You changed
like the ocean tide
as a carnival ride
kernels turn into buttery popcorn
but you only left me in scorn

You changed
from spring to winter
from a mahogany table
to a flat board of splinters
in spring flowers bloom
but your change left me little room

War
How it rattles
You always ask

Monsters behind lines
Everybody is a casualty
Nobody is the same

Fighting over what’s wrong
In the most of the battle
Guns roaring
Helicopters patrolling
Tomorrow’s children shipped over still

Everybody knows
All the ways
Children play war
How fun it is

Only veterans know
The real struggle
Hiding in the bushes
Entire platoons down
Running in the jungle

that song is so beautiful
and the strings make me cry
but I forget that an instrument needs to be taken care of too
in order to sound so wonderful.

it is soothing to see them,
taking care of one another.

I exist in the midst of
the ruins of myself, and
the stranger I have become

The day greets me with its
aching loneliness forcing me
to suffer through its brutal hours

Even in my dreams,
I am still being crushed  
by the heaviness of the night

And I do not know
if I can bear to see
another burning sunset

Pen is moving, anxious to start.
   Will it translate what's in the heart?
Ink is now, beginning it's flow.
   Staining the paper, with what comes from the soul.
Lines change into letters, forming the words.
   Will they be the ones, that want to be heard?
Sentences follows sentence, after a time,
    are they conveying, what was held in the mind?
With the final period, laying down the pen.
    Till the need arises, to begin, again.

up
as a paper doll
in blouse and skirt
and knitted shawl
and it’d hurt
between the lolls
when he didn’t call

He cut me
down
as an old oak tree
with tainted words
dropped to my knees
cut me in thirds
in a fell swoop breeze

He cut me
in
the spring
as tulips bloom
cut all my heartstrings
not to resume
this threadbare fling

He cut me
out
of his life
with a pen
not a knife
and then
took a wife