These are my favorite things,
taken to the pawn shop,
These are my favorite movies, books, and trinkets,
thrown in the dump,
and my favorite memories,
framed in plaques of wood and plastic,
Mary goes round merrily, making its way
round to take me to the moon,
and a Monday no longer mundane,
and the imperfections of my reflections,
worn around my mane
bejeweled

She, is my muse...
and the pretty portrait
of every morning rising sun,
My mind is filled with the thought of her,
Hiding away i try,
to avoid the noise,
bustling in the busy bloom.

Blue, is her name
nights rovings revolve around her hair,
In distress and joy,
the ploy,
is her mouth,
and the ceaseless meanderings,
makes me tranquil,
yet apprehensive
She, is my vice,
She is my muse

Playing the waiting game,
one fiddles with his feet,
or twiddles with his thumbs,
As he fancies of a beach,
pressing his teeth against his gums,

Of the worlds he could explore,
he finds himself indoors,
and forms clouds of distant lands,
In the wait of kingdom's come

In the blink of an eye
things can go from Disney to dismal,
and the mood dim,
and diamonds rugged edges
cuts the pupil with its sharp gleam,
and what you believed to be precious
like rose,
reminds you, the dangers
trusting beauty to remain.

I didnt think i would expose a poem,
or even,
conjour the courage to knit a cape out of my addiction...
This is me settling my habits with cigarettes to rest.

I ditch the nicotine and tobacco and cigarette paper,
and although the thought of this triumph is enriching,
Right now my spirit is pale, and stale of vigor,
The livliehood of a single puff,
could heal all pain of the moment,
until yet again,
time takes its toll,
Frozen I feel,
stuck and bewildered having my crutches
swept from the vice grips of my hands,
and now,
I am to stand on my own two,
with the will of my own my mind and my own heart.
Gravity is heavier here,
as if landing on planet Jupiter
Alien! Indeed is the feeling I feel, feeling, I fall...

Rugged and ruined under rain,
daggered with bows
and blind groping over braille,
Who knew victory could feel so grave, ill?
so grim and muggy and moody and mundane.
The greatest dynasties fell to dust,
and yet God doesnt even show a face familiar to man,
but is felt with the grace of a feather,
behold a blooming forever,
Clandestine, a boon worthwhile...

When everyday becomes anomalous,
Amporphic, and figments mangle along,
longing for a belonging in the King's Castle,
Those of Night, tales of the unseen
mends the sublime of Day,
Myth,
thoughts no longer thoughts,
But colors, decoded into
             glyhps of gold.

In far flung fields
How your heightened heart
Beat’s as if it’ll never break
As if it barely bleed’s
And your laughter lifts
All souls that surround it
And immortal moments
Fly down to flirt
Within the spaces where
Your smile lingers
And your yawning
Calls out to the brittle breeze
Who sweeps forth
Cuddling and cradling
You in just the right jet stream
So that sleep may nestle
Upon your neck
Delivering desirous dreams