Word Play

Last breath

open door's

              Her soul drowns in 

            oceans of darkness as

          if there's an everlasting eclipse

       that stays in her orbit for many moons

    her minds lost in an oceans of emptiness 

 skin as cold as ice as if her heart stop beating her memory forgotten as if life was a lie

forbidden words flutters out as she draws her   

 Last breath

as she lays helpless while being torn to peaces and her last thoughts scream out will I ever be free from all this pain 

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Similar Sounds

At least the lease has released its lewd tenants

and finally the rent money can be spent

elsewhere, maybe on dates with lieutenants.

She found funds to fend off the fiends,

feed her friends, and fix the fender bender.

She’s come so far on her own two feet,

her feats have been featured in feature

pictures, and to her, defeat is featureless.

She’s never seen its face or faced its scowl.

In just minutes she justifies her minutely adjusted

perspective on justice by addressing just us.

Now she dresses up in lovely French dresses,

and drizzles Italian dressing on her salads.

She has a disguise for these skies when they

turn gray or for when she has to diss guys.

It’s a simple smile that lights up the dark for miles,

and to put it mildly and in the form of a simile,

her parting lips bring as much joy as the parting sea.

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Untitled Repose



Untitled Repose

Because I am an emotional man,                                                                                                                                                                 Who has it in his head that emotions are irrational,                                                                                                                                     And whom in the absurdity of this misery,                                                                                                                                              Prefers to hold the hand of these abstractions,


So then as my pen touches down on paper,                                                                                                                                                      I am made whole and then released to roam.

Thus it is to be,                                                                                                                                                                                             That the young and growing poets dream,                                                                                                                                                                  Is ever to remain alive in the hungry heart,                                                                                                                                                     Of said endless illusion.



On the whiteness of this page,                                                                                                                                                                      Past the singular threads bleached black,



Lays the grunt of the imagination grazing on the plane of our reality,

And in this native hue of resolution,

~Like Others Past~

I am none the less:



“Sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought’’

And all my sins remembered,



Author's Notes/Comments: 

This maybe the only one I post in this folder, I'll store the rest. Perhaps next summer I will get around to posting them.

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short poems

these verses

are curses

with purpose

and worth it

Author's Notes/Comments: 

nothing to say but that

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Sugar and Spice

Love me, hug me,

Treat me right.

Didn't you know?

I'm sugar and spice.

Hug me once,

Kiss me twice.

Promise me now,

You'll love me for life.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written in 2003

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On Writing

I write - but it

doesn't make the things

clearer to me at all.

I simply translate

a voice - a sound -

that I would never

understand; that reason

can't explain; and that

words will never

capture its essence.

I just write and won't stop.

Maybe, that is the

point of it all.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

04-21-2006, metered.

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coming up smelling


it's a good day

spring is somewhere

thaw here

i forget my dreams last night

they were scary, the little stupid fears

like late for work or naked in your arms

the day is sunny and i feel like i have

come up smelling like hello kitty

in a very randy mood

sort of like barbie two beers

into the night, feeling like

a very ken mood

on a night she is wearing

her autotune tights

and her thighs are ringing

in a harmonic way that

seems to work for rap music

it would be nice to hug you

like the guttenburg press

could you be the scent of spring

that melts cascades

could you squeeze me down

in that autotune tights way

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Prose, Who knows?

Bellows, Echoes.

Fellows toes,

Widows and woes.

Blows low, sews,

Rows the belows.

Goes the foes,

Pose bright yellows.

Close retro's,

Hose the pillows.

Prose, Who knows?

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"Is your little poem titled yet??" I asked Michelle.

"Not yet," she replied. "Do you have any good ideas??"

"Well,...you could call it by its first name." I remarked.

"It's already titled then." She quipped.

"What's the title??" I asked.

"My Four Hundred And Sixty-Seventh Journal Entry." She replied.

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