Some things are too pure
human to pull into
the gutter of the mind.

He’d rather put a bullet
thru his temple
than undress her
with those filthy eyes.

some women
you drink with.
&
Some
you just die for.

Peace doesn’t always mean something good. I’ve seen different kinda peace some are worse than wars.

I was young & free
when the clouds were young
as well
but I aged sooner.
They still float
while I fall
thruu time
Women,
Family,
Bills,
&
Lastly
Jobs?
(Maybe tomorrow…)

Day
by
day…

I barely remember
what it felt like
to fly.

Oh clouds & I

Life yea
it’s beautiful
wow & I’d hate
to crack it open
just to feed
someone’s curiosity

what a beautiful
wreckage

(or)
what a beautiful
weight

~~
what a beautiful
Life.

The wolves pursue in starving packs,
Their howls a hymn to midnight’s mark.
But I have learned the art of flight,
To guard my small, defiant spark.

I stumble into serpents’ coils,
Their venom laced in silken art.
They hiss, they weave, they pierce with lies—
Yet cannot touch my steadfast heart.

Invisible handshake
& a red rose
are like a white cloud
floating in ecstasy
in a wide pillowed infinite sky.

Sometimes raining
sometimes chased
by a summer sun.

~~

She looked at me
I looked at her
Obviously  true love

So we both looked away
Quick, before someone
catches us..… caring

The end. (Thank God.)

Emotions? Disgusting
We almost had a moment
Close call.

Good thing
we’re both highly trained
emotionally unavailable professionals.

Catch feelings?
Please !!!
I’d rather catch the flu.

I love Sundays—
waking slow, stretching wide,
one last day to savor,
wrapped in the warmth of morning light.

But then it creeps in—
laundry piles, grocery lists,
gas tank half-empty,
a whisper of duty pulling me forward.
I hate Sundays.

Tasks complete, I stand outside,
admiring the work, the order,
knowing the week will not demand
more than I have already given.
I love Sundays.

Yet as the sun sinks low,
so does my heart—
the weight of the week ahead,
the early alarm, the Monday grind.
I hate Sundays.

But imagine if Monday was ours to keep,
a four-day week, the American dream.
More time to breathe, to rest, to live—
now that’s a Sunday I could always love.