Has a road to it. For the living and the dying, for the distinct sensation of convenience and order. We live by convenience.

A long time ago I wrote a poem for a girl whose beauty and grace was captivating, enthralling but who was also

I have seen my own death, it isn’t pretty. My face as a corpse is unkempt. It’s ok, I wasn’t perfect. It is strange,

Why choose misery over the joy found when mugs on the table hide their secrets and pour out everything

This little book of rhyme holds captive my heart. No, my mind’s the real upstart. Credit to my heart’s a crime. Desperation took the real blow

And the others withhold experience from me. So that I sit, and stare,

I wish my memories were translated… Reflections of my life, entranced in melody, I wonder how they would sound. The music of my memories...

There it is again, that weird, translucent awareness suddenly felt when sitting directly opposite from som… in a small, non-intimate room.

Stooping low to face the gentle wa… that drifted under my influence. Heard these waters held sickness t… and a simple drink taught desponde… A hidden path felt through the unc…

Creating, condemning, piercing my skin with a rough sketch, tattoo ink and a clueless reminder found within every pore.

I keep seeing them out of shadows they creep, men in black robes.

The ladder is before you Will you climb? Well of course you will You have the time Those first rungs are easy

There’s four of them, circling aro… not doing or thinking of tomorrow. Just simple thoughts and words sha… to each other. Today yet another d… Dressed mostly in black, with rand…

A puff of air internalized in a vacant room. Cows among me chewing the expensive cud that

Rock 'n’ Roll kept me up nights until the morning lights of the ne… became battered reminders of accos… that threw itself on my near-awake… Scrreeeeccchhhh! Long, Angry Yel…