Some People….

… A poem.

Copyright and all that over stuff…

(Leave it, (my lawyer is bigger than your balls), you have no right to it, etc, etc, etc.)

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The Need to…

…when it overwhelms.

I love being a writer,
at heart…
with a writer’s soul
and even paycheque.

The broke,
The hungry,
The need…
…unmet.

Words that form
like fever,
fervor
in my head
desperate
for must have…

Ache to
pen to paper.
A fountain flows,
fills over.

And then,
you can’t…
and the words just
swirl;
mess and fight,
like violence
and sex
begging to be let out,
Voiced.

Screaming
in silence
against silence,
Pressure until
the moment
the muse
is met

…but lost.

Dead Cats, Pennslyvania and Astabula….

…And the last of the summer rain.

Head tilted back, turned toward a dark sky,
eyes closed…
I feel warm air and cool water
droplets on my skin.

In the distance I hear
sirens,
and soft foreign voices,
and I sense a tightness.

I can’t relax…

…A distinct feeling
of a wind-up toy
wound fully but
with the key held;
bound, ready to let go
yet directionless.

My eyes are glowing green,
like the times I’ve put in contacts
to make my eyes unbelievable
but I am not
wearing any…
…just a symptom,
a tell tale of
Heterochromia Iridum
and other things
I could not control.

Beautiful and sad
and freedom found
on lonely turnpikes
as seasons change
and lives pass, time
faded
autumn ready
to say good-night
in morning fog;
looking for reason
on roadmaps
to any place
that isn’t “home”.

…And, by way of explanation (at least a little bit)…
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