Pyschedlics in the sky
Just love on my mind
Lust in the sun
And empty bottles of ***
Bitterness on my tounge
Psychedelic paterns trip in my eyes
Laughter is so hard to find
Skinny dippin just to have a lil fun
Cigarettes hanging on my lip
Smoke Filling up my lungs
I can't see no more
Dancing around
In psychedelic skys

Dear, old friend,
I feel old without you;
While life beats slower each passing day,
With nothing ever new and nothing on the way.

I've grown weary with the predictable paterns of life,
Which you deliberated against,
And made bounding leaps to the rarely visited vegas of existence:
          Journeys we would often make together.

What memories do you forget of me,
And what memories did you create since?
And is it worth it to live and fulfill this epic narrative?
Your life does not have to be like a tragedy;
Always sorrowful and hanging in suspense.

I can pick you back up, old friend;
I'll pick you back up again.

Ambrosial language I quest for thy heavenly manner
Mine life's running short
I canst seeith the drab channel's lantern's.
I don't needeth criss-cross paterns
Just a I loveth thou
Not an adieu
Farewell's art to common
I needeth one thick and through.
The bask of sensuality
I want to afire this chill
I'm stuck in a maze
Like a phantom in place
Trying to make mine way
Back home....

All my poems are bespoke

                           it seams, as reading is not a

stitch, on hearing them read.

                            Can’t beat a good yarn and

a well woven tale is tops.

                          Point to point paterns emerge

just as top notch patches.

                           Pockets of made to measure

interlining fusing hems

                            off the cuff remarks but do not

forget it’s for dolly birds too.

                             Just give me a blank canvas

because I am a blazer

                               bias! no, bi swing back, yes,

balance, I am what’s known

                             as the alteration tailor of truth.