when looking at old pictures don’t forget to look forward.
look forward and think, i will find that smile again think
i am no longer a child. i am a person now and soon the world will understand it.

when looking forward don’t forget to breathe
it’s hard to do this when you are approaching an ocean of doubt
but i promise it’s not so hard to walk with the rocks on the bottom once you get used to it.

This day the Roman pigs have come to me
I feel the wind of fate has brought me ill.
They're thieves who strip all men of strength of will,
the slaves of sin of greed, they're known to be

For now, a storm has raged across the sea
My rights denied, they're coming set to kill
and add the stain of shame, my soul to chill
they whipped my back to break the heart that's free

'''was'''... means gone----

''let old bitters be washed away----- and honey across memory ....do spray

Pragmatic ::::::no Posthumously

Very pragmatic view
that's why
Nobel is given to those living
and
those since had gone....
need no Posthumous
they need only to be remembered
even that they will know not

brains have been left in ashes
of that is there still
in any minds
a lingering doubt?

Maelstrom

Transcendental soldiers riding
steeds of mindless steel
clad in trappings suitable for war
patriotic slogans hiding
what they really feel
knowing they have done it all before

I'm great, fine, spectacular. In a way
I relish every night, and I live every day.
I live, I laugh, I write, I sing,
I wonder what the new days will bring.

Then I get home, and I take off the mask.
The day, and almost impossible task,
Is finally over, and so I lie Down,
and wait patiently for the day that I die.

I cry, I scream, I bawl, and sleep,
even though I have promises to keep.
I wait, and wonder, and cry some more,
And I ache and burn from my very core.

It is morning, I hear the sky tearing
Itself apart, cloud limb from limb in gales.
No longer early and I wake to start
On clattering bailiff windows, so alert

I reach for reasons that are known, yet scrawl
Them down for comforts sake, before the dawn.
Brings snarling chainsaw, stripping thickened trunks
Straddling giants, that deem us fit for air

That sings through palings, sallies down the stair
Audible in its vociferous bawl
It fills the heads of those inside with fear
Trembling as the shimmer on the shore

would succumb to the whale
of his memoirs wrath
and wither by the gale
of the writer's breath

the aversion he tasted
through the years of woe
and the anguish wasted
allow him his wickedness sow

the long gone dead
and their castrate journals
allow a tear to be shed
on old, offensive portals

would lay prostrate and still
reciting the jots of ink;
a wench to his wicked will
the page his passion drink

he’s quick to the quick, an alarmist
so easy to slip on his arm rest
the dogs all start barking
when foam he is harking
he never was known as the calmest

Plovers for Nightingales.
I
I hear them, behind the soft glow windows scene
Of girthing brick suburbs, encircling the green

You know, the lonely tappers singing
Along the lines of the lovers, listening

They hear its imploring screeching in the dark
As a pouring forth, a protective heart

The defining nocturne sound, in the southern night
The night song of the plover’s birthright

By day, deemed guilty by proximity,
They spear my sight, swooping desperately

She's too harsh to be of any help, they said
her blunt honest truths cause her much pains
many mouths shouting obscenities, disdain
no apologies as she's right so, she's seeing red

Sanity is as feathers blown from your head
like a mist common sense is gone gone
"we got this, don't need ya" you said
"I got power of authority he's my dad" wrong

He has several at his bedside, wicked
"seven dysfunctional dwarf, loathed
Snow White by his side offering help, get ditched
wicked tried to puts poison applesauce down her throat,