everyone wants to be the moon
touch the stars
and kiss the sun

everyone is secretly sad
that sad gleam in their eyes
confusion covers it all

I don't want the moon
I don't want the sunrise

I want my broken heart fixed
I want the voices to quiet down

trying my hardest
everyone looks away
dealing away
with their mess

to busy helping ourselves
we don't look at eachother

The dusty
spider-webbed
wet and ruined
wooden slats
are stacked
too high
in the back,
rotting
way past
safety standards,
and they won’t last
more than a month before
they collapse
and spill
the junk we stored
all over the
warehouse floor.

a fly buzz in my jar
well deep of dark
look at pale photographs
souls were past deserts

we will not sleep tired

It's a wide open art,
from the start.
Rules are for schools.
Dont fret em,
forget em.
So
Relax with a syntax,
clown around,
with a pronoun.
Squeeze the ******,
of a dangling participle.

Free flying like geese,
creative words release,
make it up if you please.
Example--the plural of mice is meese.

Flowery language isn't the exclusive domain of the professional writer, it's for everyone!
To continue then,
about the writers pen.
No write or wrong,
nothings too short or long.
Mangled,
bungled,
butchered,
bumbled, don't matter.
We don't need a librarian to admire what we have done.

Words aren't hard,
fling them unbarred.
It's not arithmetic,
or teaching a cat a trick.
Crunch them uniting,
mix them combining.
Fling them,
meld them,
Verb them,
sell them.
We don't need a New York Times best seller to enjoy the art of writing.

Uncrate it,
create it.
Use it,
and abuse it.
Don't bar us
from a thesaurus
Or a dictionary.
The spiel
is to write real
tell the tale
seal the deal.
WORD HATERS live in the town called Fictionary.

Walking by the railway trucks
Thinking to myself
Is it right to believe in right and wrong?
Is this where I belong?

The atmosphere is a bit nostalgic today
I surrender praise and worship song plays
Everything else just levels to the latitude

A moment to be savored

But my reality fought for its existence
As if it was being forgotten
The wind blows
and it all dawns
that the thorn still grows

Felt like a pinch into reality
a discarded memory crawling into my brain
these are the days that made me
Or sometimes broke me

I am headed for a heart attack,
tension and stress are
pressing against my chest.

My voice is garbled
and I am unable to
adequately express
those repressed
truths.

Wake up to early
get my food and cloths ready
then rush out the door
before I can catch
my morning breath,
and take an hour-long drive.

I hit the gym
keep on pushing
trying to accomplish
a goal that
doesn’t really matter one bit.
Who really cares
if I get super fit?

Get to work,
knock out
an eight-hour shift
while I eat
walk,
read,
think,
write,
and draw.

Then hit repeat
on the cd player
of my groundhog’s day life.

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful --
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.