filled with many people who know me,
yet, I cannot remember them,
and we share a meal and conversation
as old friends would... yet, I am
the one who feels uneasy over it;
they smile and ask the right questions
and call me by my name and I look
around for someone to tell me
who they are and what they want...
I wish this moment of my life would end
letting me return to those things
who I know for sure are my friends.
my basket of thoughts
never seems to empty,
even though the concepts
are the same... as
expression depends upon
the way I actually feel.
we live under
tomorrow's hope
benefitting from
yesterday's dreams
while we attempt to
meet today's needs.
and if the environment
feels strange then one
is less likely to notice
the time that is wasted.
we live by our instincts
and die without choice,
we capture life on film,
points in time of things
thought important to remember,
and occasionally look back
at that which we would
like to forget... our lives
are composed with involuntary
substitutes of happiness.
I have lost my interest
and I don't know why,
I look at you and see
many others who offer more,
they don't want me as
I don't want you either.
life seems unfair today
as if someone has reached
inside and removed my soul
leaving me without purpose.
whose victory are we fight for?
whose territory do we live in?
whose direction do we follow
and by whose influence
are we eventually guided?
and, even though we have a
choice, is it always for another?
down on paper I
scribble thoughts
about the ways I
feel and ideas about
the ways I see and
comments about
the way I believe;
down on paper I
put these words,
and in poetic style
are written when
perhaps more
appropriately it's
just a diary of things
that bother me...
for I am no poet
and I don't mean
to be... it just seems
to read better.
claims to his innocence
seem justified and claims
to his guild appear true;
yet, truth and the law
seldom intersect and those
who cannot spell the different
end up at the line's end.
even though my secretary
checks the spelling too...
I watch my vocabulary even
when an established phrase will do...
I pick and choose the rules and
if they don't amuse me...
well I sign it anyway.
her crime was his passion
his reluctance was her salvation,
and they argued on the choice,
she needed his hopelessness
he needed her faith and they
tossed salt over their shoulders
to bring them good luck.
the stranger knelt down beside her
and bent to kiss her between her legs
as his hands searched over her body;
his tongue found the key to her
passion as she rubbed away his guilt;
she screamed for help as they exploded
like fire crackers and pleasure ruled
their senses until their multi-colored
misconceptions had returned outside.
you want to marry moi?
what kind of assurances can
you give on my happiness?
or, whether you will love
me five years from now?
or, if sex will be as good or
better than it is now?
or, whether I will not become
interested in another?
you want to marry moi?
what kind of fool do you
take me for... my lady?
I gave my passion
willingly for many years,
now I don't know who
I love or how I feel.
it all begins with a look
then I can tell if you're lonely,
it all begins at home when
those who love us forget
to share their thoughts,
it all begins quite innocently
as we substitute friendships.
we camp out with our feelings
keeping them hostage in a pup-tent
during the day and a night we use
them to bait others always
leaving them empty-handed.
if you ever decide
to have an affair,
I wish that you
would consider me.
she hold her own as
good as any man,
and respect... she has
more than earned,
she's even delegated love
to others in the office
but when she arrives home
the loneliness of success
betrays all her feelings.
the warning comes
once without notice
and never... if we expect
to look for any clues.
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