my nightmares used to be
about monsters under my bed
and the demons in my head
but I don't check under my bed
nor look in my closet for them anymore
because my nightmares only consist
about you, and the pain
if i ever lose you

I looked at the beggarman
Wrapped in a bundle
Of cardboard, rags and dirt,
With a royal smirk on his face
As his eyes pierced mine
For the second or less
It took to wander by
His space of rest,
His makeshift nest
Of cardboard, rags and dirt...

Today he laid
On his side,
Knees slightly bent,
A blue Bic gripped loosely
In his right fist,
Notepad white
In his right...

What does a beggarman write
From his sanctuary
Of cardboard, rags and dirt,
I wondered?

Could it be a sign,
A plea for a penny
Or a piece of bread?

Or was the beggarman
A thespian well-read
With a tale or two
Trapped in his troubled head....

As he was,
In his bastille
Of cardboard, rags and dirt...

A Danielle Steele
Undiscovered....

An Amiri Baraka
Reborn...

A literary genius trapped
In a bundle
Of cardboard, rags and dirt
With a royal smirk on his face.

~ P
(#TheBeggarman)
2/28/2014

the nodding snowdrops cannot compete
with the ornamental grass swaying in the wind.
The pathway to the pond is unsteady
its wet ground giving way,
no room for the artist to paint.
The threatened rain has not arrived
whilst  the camelias gives a sad hue
of what should have been

healing
growing
bursting
overflowing
expanding
I exist

All this time
I have thrown around this label
My tendency to observe my surroundings
Searching for answers in every action, every move
I used to think I was a wallflower
A extroverted wallflower
who simultaneously was a social butterfly
but I am not this, I am not this at all  
I am a writer