From passioned flames, a love is born
Of hopes and dreams and trust,
And when it dies, where does one mourn
When love returns to dust?

For death is death and loss is loss
And somewhere in between,
The death of love will bear no cross
And no grave to be seen

No upturned soil, no marble stone,
No polished box of pine;
No slow procession through the town,
No solemn church-bell chimes

All lovers need a place to cry,
To lay a solemn wreath;
Somewhere to say a last goodbye,
To overcome their grief

Goes down smooth and puts me in the mood, gives me reason to dance and groove. Forget all my worries after just a few sips, glass stained from lipstick lips. Loves me mind, body, and soul, but keeps me interested that's the goal. Robust indeed, but its exactly what I need. Gets better with time, yes honey he is like fine wine. But you already knew I could rhyme. Lol

What if I got drunk,
****** out of my gourd,
decided to get stewed
on the cheapest whiskey,
throw myself
into oblivion
shooting smack,
poke my biggest vein,
inhale a pile of pink-flake,
the kind that
melts in your mouth
& you can't feel your tongue.
I might attack
my ****** soul
with ripe *****,
pop some dexies,
lick purple stars,
then go
whacked outside,
into the salt breezes
driving my beat up Rambler-car.
I could pipe my distaste
for this messy
robot-establishment,
tell them how it is,
these control freaks
trying to run our mean streets.
I could spew it to them in rhyme,
write free flow verses
about starry night skies
& our misplaced loves,
the agony of
our cracked
bleeding hearts.
Indeed fellow trippers,
I could show them
the danger in my eye,
cry for the sympathetic wolf,
flip a few Molotov cocktails.
But whatever I do,
you must believe me,
you wonderful people
& you sober-minded drones,
I have seen the light
from the bottom
of the abyss
& it ain't pretty,
it't ain't pretty,
doped up,
living a ******-up
life on the edge.