The old man sits there in his chair.
He's tired of sitting but he knows
it hurts to rise and go elsewhere
so he stays ... the blue ink flows.

By writing he can turn back time
to a past when he was young and hale
and gave no thought to verse or rhyme
or the telling of a long life's tale.

On paper his mind is young and free,
a five mile jaunt just a short walk.
He goes anywhere he'd like to be
be it a stroll or careful stalk.

Voices in my head makes me think about things I dread.
Maybe I should take my Meds and go lay down on the bed.
Man my head feels like its full of lead and when I close my eyes
all I see is red. If wasn't such a hothead maybe I wouldn't
feel like I am dead. Maybe I was really mislead by some meat head.
Man I wish I would just went and ate some cornbread instead.

In silence,
the trees quench their thirst
while their leaves gather
to celebrate nature's kindness
as a starving snake slithers,
seeking its prey
to appease its hunger
at the end of the day.

curve the tracks
the idling
the burnt outbulb
on a front porch
plants and a glider
inside the clock
ticks
in the bedroom
he rides her
his homie watchs
time on the
citizens bend
watching clouds
crawl
their way
the wend
beneath
him she cries
she moans
she sweats
and the tv
in the living
room
tells them
the worlds
coming to an
end
Skylines like
a joker
inside the
car
he inhales
a toker