Writer and Lover of Words
No power left to protest
only tears to weep
just trying to stick to the plan
the dream
the lie told to all children
come to bittersweet fruition
otherwise known as adulthood
I can, I can, I will start writing tonight.
The hour is late and my mind is foggy,
but I will, I will write something tonight
profound and interesting it may even be
Before my head hits the desk and
my fingers forget their marks
I will, I will write something tonight.
every time you see me
you see the most beautiful me
that there is
and the most beautiful me
that there will ever me
and it is a gift
that you give to me
that I wish so much
so very much
to give back to you
in a new ending loop
of what love is suppose to be
And is
And will be
it is sad when the poet runs out of words
runs out lyrics to sing
and the chambers of thoughts
once over flowing are empty
then the poet isn’t a poet any more
and slowly begins to die
High heels, high hopes
dreams on an unsteady foundation
like wearing stilettos for the first time
everyone falls down
and we all live to see the next day
The beach was broken.
There wasn’t much of a shore to explore
At least at first…
Further on the path
Around the bend
And through a mangrove forest
There was some sand for my toes.
And waves to rinse away
All the residue that has been clinging
To every step I take, weighing down
Thought, action and tainting feelings
I stood and laughed
Free
Cleansed the unvoiced anger
letting me breathe
for a time
unburdened.
Comfort found in the bottle
isn’t comfort all at
or so they say
and plead their case
though looks and passing remarks
Comfort found through lies
and sweaty deeds
isn’t comfort all at
so let me take the comfort that is honest after all,
I can’t lie to a bottle.
