Green

There he goes again, down

Main Street with his usual swagger,

In all of his egotistical self love

Does he haughtily grin at the world,

Lackadaisically he dons a pair aviator shades

And straightens out the V-neck,

Where the glasses tugged down

And caused a gentle wrinkle in the jet black cotton,

His stride slightly thrown by the new, unbroken blue jeans,

Which go with the green shoes,

And the bright white laces holding it all together.

Sleeping Beauty

There it sits, where I left it,
Not used even by the magicians fingers,
And not tickled by a child searching for fun
On a boredom day,
As the ivory silently plays weeping ballads, dust falls
Upon the golden wood and jet black keys that once sang
In the name of beauty.

Boredom Boy

Boredom Boy

Stood blank facedly placid, staring

Professionally into empty space while wondering,

When the time will have flown by enough for him to escape

His monotonous prison

The Desk

There was desk in a white house

Where papers grew from the gleaming finished surface

Which like a shy child, would peek out from underneath

A flowered cloth, that was sloppily draped over him in a rush,

Yet, only to the child’s dismay was he tucked back under, everyday,

Every time,

He attempted a peek,

And many a day would he dwell on the oppressing thought that,

That old flowered cloth, and all those papers,

Would always conceal his

Beauty.

Smarty Smug Sniffy

Here we have the odd one reading what he states to be,

A text book,

Or so he says it to be,

And what a demeanor of uppity boy does he declare the notsoamazing happenings

Of his book worm life,

Who in this school needs to read, but him?

“No one!” I answer with the usual swagger,

(Door opens to my office and my friend inquires)

“How did you do on that test?”



Weellll, as you probably know, I, uhh, failed, the test...



So how would my swift witty tongue reply?

“That is confidential information, please don’t ask about

My personal grades”.

Thinker Boy

He crossleggedly poses in the brown rocker while wearing the face of The Thinker

Pondering equations that Einstein didn’t get,

And when stumped his great mind is, he states the ask “what the heck?!”



Ouch!



Sorry for the interruption, I’m not accustomed to being

Struck by crumpled paper, covered with careful, yet miscalculated thoughts

That are not, what he thought them to be.

Water Never Tasted So Good

Water never tasted so good, especially

After pressing through a wall of density

And pressure,

All your strength strained to the test

Up against something hard,

Something hard like life,

Life is a wall that we slam up against,

And it hurts,

Jesus’ water never tasted so good.

Glove Box

Cassette tapes in the

Glove box, are memories that

Age, that serve shelf time.

There was a Man

There was a Man who lived for man,

Man, who deserved to die,

There was a Man who cried because of the burden, for loveless lambs, and

There was a Man who loved, more than any man could,

And there was a man, who suffered beyond what I could stand,

There was a Man who was whipped to death’s edge,

And then pushed over, by the very men he was dying for,

Four spikes to pin his limbs, and while innocent blood spurted out and splattered,

Against the pitiless dirt,

They rammed down against his brow a cutting crown,

That man, then died, he died

For us, and the dirty perversion that we love,

There was a Man, who loved man his whole life,

More than his own life,

That Man lives again, and is fighting

For your life, because

You will die,

Without Him,

At your side.

Mid-Night Supper

There is a man,

That is haunting the dark,

And when I’m sitting in the night,

I feel his falling footsteps, fall behind me,

I spin around, to find no one,

No One,

Is it a One, to start with?

Probably not,

The pitiless black that fills my vision

The night hides many men, from the light,

But does light reveal everything you could see,



In your short life, you live a short time,

So, I will

Make this short,

The shadow in the night that you create, is

Much harder to drive out with light,

Than the dark that wasn’t invited

For a mid night supper.

Unpoetically

Sometimes I try to write,

And sometimes I try

To think,

Not just think,

But think about what to write, I say try because I try,

But can’t think, like a man who can’t stand his own,

Or like the women who can’t bear a child,

The boy who fights for respect,

And the girl who doesn’t have a friend,

Failure at being great, hurts,

But, I guess it’s not my fault that I’m not great,

Or maybe I didn’t do what was right, at that pivotal moment,

And ruined my potential,

I take pauses throughout my writing,

To get new ideas,

And wait, for them to come, they usually do,

Usually,

I like to stand at the wide open water, and think about things

No one thinks about,

My mind is a box with dark corners,

That always light up a little more every day,

I can ramble unpoetically, like right now,

I like making up words, and

Though you may say it’s not fair game, you get my point, right?

Of course you do, you’re an understanding young person,

Or maybe not so young,

And you feel the weathering of life, wearing you down,

Well, make up a word,

And laugh

To live,

A little more.

Left for Me

I can’t say what I want to say to you,

I will, in a letter, sometime soon, but for now

Try and understand,

For now with these words, I know,

A poor compensation,



I hate

this feeling I find,

It lives in my life, and clasps my mind,

We may fight against the tearing of our lives a part, But to no avail,

Like a part of me flown away by you, into an unreachable place,

And you, a part of you taken by I,

That I will keep,

And treasure,

Forever.

Forseeable Pain

You know the feeling you get,

When you're torn from a friend,

You're both are parting ways, and you both have different lives,

I get a tearing emotion, that wrecks me,

You are gone, and I will never see you again.

Is it almost worth it, not to make a friend?

Better not throw yourself, into foreseeable pain,

And not make a friend.

Door

When I walk down the hall, towards the door,

Memorized patterns play out in order,

And I know what will happen

When I open that door,

That white door, covered with paper,

Splotched paper that says what I think,

Says what I thought,

The door gives way when I press,

And I enter the dark the lurks in that room,

At the end of the hall, where

My thoughts prowl,

And that door, that's covered in splotched

Paper.