loosen your grip on unmentionable fantasy and
reality will be forced to step in
bringing with it pain and its brother joy
on so goeth the theory of the dead pen
some would call it writer's block
I define it as punching the system out of shock
come to my rescue sweet madness
but make not a sound
for I may not be the only one to witness
its worried war like round
battling worry like a young prize fighter
working for the gold
giving me nearly everything to live for
but nothing tangible to hold
I burn up in this place so cold
what if I meet my destiny and find it has been sold
will I be small or large enough to fit into my
predestined mold
right now my troubled thoughts are a tad bit cracked
and against this wall of stone cold indifference
the essence of my soul has been critically backed
I'm somehow like a rail way car I run along on a
steel railed track
I can't seem to make it fully home but I can get back
everything I say anymore requires some measure of
tact
I can pick up on the truth in dishonesty and find
fiction in fact
with so many unfinished sentences in my slightly lost
soul with this shovel like pen I'll one day manage to
fill up the hole
and when I'm finished I'll sit down at the top of the
hand made heap
take an ecstatic breath then wildly weep...........
( written Feb 25, 1992 am)