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That Innocent child

She seems so distant, so far away
It is strange to see a genuine smile
Ever stumbling along day by day
The zombies are here, our souls in exile

We are the demons the source of privation
I am polluted and defiled
Has earth become my eternal damnation
I miss her, that innocent child

I see the decorations, ornaments and frill
This malignity should be forgotten and estranged
Their cackaling laughter and mischievous shrill
My agony labeled as mentally deranged

Mother's Boy

A man, so proud, so strong so tall
One i'm afraid to even talk to
As if one out- of- place word might
Cause anger or even hasty blows.
Yet he cries at night and..
I pretend i don't hear him;
His shameless whimpers and whispers
Tell me who is behind his tears.
The mornings go on, each one the same,
And i always know how unhappy he is without his mother.
Eight tearful years have passed,
You'd think it time to move on but...
He still clings to the hope that she will return


Soft on the neck of either dove’s love, beyond such a beauty, there hides a haze. A hazy patch of blacks and blues, where ashes lay, woke. The nightlight from an open candle sits in silence, trapped in lifeless motion, as it awaits the sun beyond its metal feet. A frozen door handle, covered with moldy moss, acts as the dawning memory of a lock intended to close, but always remains open, as a child’s laughter re-paints flowers along a bedroom barrier.

falling stars



Another shooting star

I refrained from wishing,

having watched it





We were so close. You gave me joy and I could tell you anything,

            believing you cared.

Knowing you would be there for me.

Then something changed,

            and you threw me away.

You only care about them,

            yet you still claim to be my best friend.

You reassure me that I'm loved,

            that I'm valued and cared for.

But when I need you most you ignore me

            and only care for them.

Like I'm invisible.

You see me struggle,

You hear my cries for help.

A late night poem:

She sits in perfect repose
a poem waiting to be composed
words woven with silken thread
fine yet not quite spoken
Constellations bright within her eyes
hinting at the prose she hides
in her gentle, shuttered soul, and why,
I wonder why, has she been left to bide her time
aching for her poem to be written

Strange as a noun

Strange is a place I’ve been
A place I’ve burned
A place I’ve lived
The name by which I am called
Strange is this life of mine
A friend who died
By his own hand
The feeling tightly wound and balled
Strange is coiled
Round my soul
It makes me sane
It makes me whole
Strange is a state of mind
A cool breeze
In a burning fire
A frame for all the portraits of my life
Strange is not a vision
Through these fingers runs
Broken indecision
Filtering out the rapid strife

The Fatso of Shalott

On either side the chip shop lie
Large bits of pizza and of pie
Which catch the nostril and the eye
And many a fatso yields a cry:
'I'd love a slice of pie a lot'
And up and down the punters go
Gazing at the rosy glow
Of pies and onions in a row,
Or eke deep-fried hot-pot.


Dangling from a silken thread
a finely woven spiders web
some claim nothing is for free
yet nothing has a crushing cost
the final tab for every loss
a toll the often goes unseen
it seems that the sharpest knives
hide themselves in loving eyes
rending cuts so clean and deep
another wound, another scar
another brutal Au Revoir
another storm leaves you lost at sea
clinging to a fraying rope
nothing stealing the last rays of hope
nothing is the farthest point south of free


If you want chaos, then keep a cat
He'll wreck your couch and eat your hat,
Walk on your bed with paws of mud;
And if he's not content with that,
Lay down a bird upon your mat,
And spatter all the house with blood,
As if a murder's taken place -
Then rub his head upon your face.


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