I was balanced
between grief and rage
anger tore at me
sadness overwhelmed

I begged god for release
praying for forgiveness
absence haunted and yes
it was all about me me me

why me? but then why not
gazing further I saw the end
nudging at minutes
moving hours

I reconciled with death
fighting and hiding
sparring and parrying
my pain was married

it’s about living and knowing
to have the grace to concede
it was never about winning
but the struggle to survive

I Cry

What’s that you say I cannot write?
What the hell, you are talking shite
I have joined up words from the age of four
I still have love letters from her next door

Did you think she wouldn't write to me?
If I was illiterate don’t you see
She was lovely with golden curls
Much better than all the other girls

Oh! It’s my poetry you cannot stand
Oh! Well, why don’t you give me a hand
There are people in the world
Also many throughout this land

Now it's past history
the mystery 
of what its all about, 
was it about,
were we about,
and why we are about it,
and while we're about it
I shall say it out loud: 

Christmas has passed us by,
by the by,
and here we still are,
by the way,
yes we are.

There's always a sigh 
after celebrations, 
a kind of eerie silence, 
not necessarily beautiful, 
just fact. 

The thought of too much sun
is enough to dry my inelegant
years down to a red soil.
For in that heated world where
you fidget within your own
heart's laager, listening to the lonely
squatting syllables of a war dance,
there is no seasoning to the
feast in your mind's migrations.

The necessary travel that you undertake
as a benevolent foreigner to serve the
benighted "us" is a pilgrimage around
your own small camp fire.

What do you want of me?
I have years to pull on
Not for all my life,
did I sit in comfort without strife
I have felt the hunger
Hunger for food
For many other things
That at the time things were severe
Yet here I am after many years

Her voice was a honeysuckle wind.

I remember the immediate addiction,
knowing how short our time might be,
but when we woke, we were old,
she said "Good morning"
and I felt the fresh smell of spring.

Pen and paper elude me tonight,
I sit in front of a thousand
lights in the night sky,
send a wish to the sandman
banish her demons and sleep tight.

The torn and tossed paper heart,
like you I find a smile upon a gaze.
Like you in that moment the world falls away
and again sandman I scream your name,
upon your journeys... do not see us apart

Forever and a day
the fighting end.
it is here the demons tourment
seeking perfect words,
I will walk away

the worst feeling is knowing what the poem is about.
when you are watching it unravel, just to be relayed in a swirl of pixels
the room seems a little darker
a good, long sleep sounds a little nicer
wait for it all to pass and then wake up years later,
just to see that nothing has changed.
see the hope is,
when you sleep -
or rather just close your eyes for a second -
it's not really happening.
it is not as bad as it seems.

Cinderella would dance like a vagrant

dark nay drawn blank
thick as the ice against a bank
i remember colors heavy and droll
and that wind light with cirrus like
winters collar neath a hood
soft stoll
decoratorhipship
decorum factum

while a river of purpose
spreads like a stain
on the ancient stretch
an open world
seeping translucent
speed
a happiness
indifference

you and i were
once upon
its time

a scene of a crime
collusion
like a starburst
blare