The sense of time erodes our fascination
with our bodies, sooner or later,
didn't it?
Was it yesterday, that lightning bug in a bell jar,
glowing now? Not now.
Did we play Shakespeare well in the parts
so designated, did we choose one over the other,
hate ourselves and each other because we missed
our cues?

she comes off as so bold
but if you watch shes scared
shes delicate. shes hurt. shes ............................fragile

like the way a roses thorn
can be so piercing but
the petals are so brittle. the....................................girls

laugh at her. she is different
she is strange. yet she is
beautiful . how does she.........................................get

herself wrapped around my mind how
does she completely lure me in to make
me feel entirely helpless. i can see the..............hurt

The rage within the poet and critique
rages without volition
no speed
it divulges of its own
in both .

The poet is at liberty to seek comfort
Yes solace or pity
and
massage ones ego
so be it ,
as an original creator of a verse
or one who only generates a curse .

come what may
poets must never be disturbed
as other's minds
may be by birth worse .

Night feels all
sleepless beneath
a dream kept company

womens voices soft
murmur in my head
the funeral and the
gathered

outside the cars gleamed
polished and waxed
a hearse waited large
as a horse team
full of chrome

half visions in the night
haze
wound with sorrows
bound with fears
those of yesteryear
brought back to life

unlike precious time
that jumped
stretched and existance
was questioned
weaving like vines
like the heat