Poem47: In Darkness

In darkness is the poet's heart
all the greater seen.
To be a poet is to be
exposed to the unclean.
In despair and turmoil
are deep secrets revealed.
In the writer's reaching out
the poet's fate is sealed.
In our poems, in our words
our demons are exposed.
In filling up the blankest page
do we forget our woes.
Perhaps with written exposure
our lives we hope to find.
I only know I'm happiest when
I can express my mind.

Poem122: Tastes Like Me

I try to write with another flavor
but every poem bears my flavor.
Every poem tastes like me
my imprint in it never waverr.
I try to evolve, grow, speak
in a new way say my piec.
but each poem is distintcly me
a mirror only reflects what it sees.
I've said so much and I feel now
I've little left to say.
All my poems seem to be
the same thing said a different way.
Can it be that I'm so shallow
already I've plunged my depths dry?
Will I find a new taste deeper
or only lose my mind to try?
With every poem I felt I grew
yet now it seems I may have shrunk.
Will I find my something new
or of my mind just tear a chunk?

Poem66: Half a Heart

This is the end and I am it
there is nothing left
this is the trend no help for it
indignity and theft

half a poem half a heart
only half a mind
have my poem have my heart
please just have a mind

all alone you're in my place
no wonder you feel lost
without bone you're in disgrace
to be one of the bossed

half my heart is in this place
my other half is lost
just a piece upon my face
my soul lies in the frost

Poem116: Tastes Like Scarlett

Dead
I watch the flowers
pushing out their roots
searching through the soil
stretching. . . Ahhhh!
relax

Dead
the flowers growing
outside, in my mind
time to till the soil
dig deeper in my skull.

Alive
you pick a flower
Sniff. . . my mind you smell
now you know the flower
and my thoughts as well.

Poem130: Wild Bill

Cody came to town
dragging a self-fashioned hearse
made from the planks
of grave-marking crosses.

He challenged each gunslinger in town
cursing and damning each one
for losing
and forcing him to travel
to yet another town.

Poem129: untitled

written on 4/4/03

War?
What war?
It's not war, it's slaughter
Shoot the hostage to kill a madman
for the benefit ... of ... of ...
mankind?
For PRIDE
Vengence
and a can of gas.
TELL ME
to support the theif in office?
Support a president we did NOT elect?
Makes as much sense as
putting a bullet through the head of a five-year-old girl
to show the world how tough you are.

Support the Burning Bush!
May he lead us into HELL!

Poem126: The Night Tracy Died

In the car
filled with girl
everyone's crying...
but me.

Eight years old
I look,
forlornly
out the window to my left
into a star-eyed sky
wondering why I cannot cry.

Pretty Maggie on my right
cries sweetly
her tears seem exotic to me
and I watch her face
wishing I could feel
as she feels

Why don't I feel. . . anything?
What's wrong with me?
Someone's dead
shouldn't I cry?
But what's death to an eight year old?
What does it mean?

I want to see the body
I want to see 'dead'
so it can be real to me
then, maybe I could cry
Then maybe I'd feel
wtih Maggie
who weeps
prettily into her hands.

Will they think something's wrong with me?
Everyone else is crying
even Mom
while she drives.
Is something wrong with me?

so I pretend to cry
taking cues from Maggie
imitating her sobs
crying with her
and for a moment,
my tears are real
not for the dead
but for myself
that I must Pretend
(What's Wrong With ME?!)

So I stop.
I'm not like Maggie
I cannot cry

I look
into a star-eyed sky.

Poem73: Know Thyself

Look within the heart
to see what lies inside
A thousand shining suns
Is that what makes your soul so bright?

Look within the mind
your third eye waking still
you see a book of sorrows
Yet ask me why the world is ill.

Look within the soul
to see the thing entire
and watch the smiling infants
Are burning with you in the fire.

Look within yourself
a vision now of hell
and see the pain it is
To truly know yourself that well.

Poem87: To Write a Poem

To write a poem
is to put into words
the inner workings of your soul
to bare all to all;
emotions become things exposed
and as such they are purified.

Writing poetry is a selfish act
for it is done,
not to give another solace or pleasure,
but so the poet might exorcise
his own demons
by exposing them to the light.

Poem90: Callused

Thank you
for the calluses
you helped put on my heart,
because of you
I'll never hurt again.
I'll never know the pain of love again.

ICE,
You've filled my chest with ice.
Once filled with fire,
but even the hottest fire
can be extinguished.

Thank you,
I'll never love again.
I'll never feel the pain of love again.

Thank you,
for cutting out my heart.
I'll never feel the pain
of loving you again.

Poem91: It Was Me

One day,
the wind stopped for me
and I looked away to see
an image staring back at me...

It was me

That day,
the sun froze for me
so I could look, so peacefully
into me to see the inner me...

When the waters roared for me
I saw my heart, so fiery
my soul, I caught in reverie
my mind was sleeping peacefully
my emotions had previously
kept themselves hidden from me,
but I caught them handily
and saw them moving Icily...

When the spirits died for me
I saw my spirit so plainly
to me it was an agony
to see myself so truthfully
to see the thing that lay in me
to know it was my enemy...

It was me.

Poem1: Order/Choas

Let me preface this by saying that this was the first poem I ever wrote. I wrote it six or seven years ago.


Was for order that we fought
Not knowing of the pain we wrought
Pain of knowing we were not right
Pain of knowing, too late, not to fight
But fight we must, for honor's sake
Though skin in fear, begins to quake
Thought we divine right would aide our win
But nothing's divine about unknown sin
Off we rode, blood flowed red
Came we back, all dead.