Appealing lives, appealing lies
Enticing offers, false representations

The driving force, of its own accord, won’t weaken
But with battered sails, torn and not mended
Determination and resolve methodically meeken
Consider jumping ship; let this all be ended

Rest me in peace, courageous fluttering flowers

Scent of Spring
Aroma of change

Will a revelation of purpose ever come to me.

I healed myself again
When I picked up paper and a pen

Is the inner world the sun, in which all of the extraneous circumstances orbit around? Or, are circumstances the center piece…the sun, that we hurdle and spin our way around perpetually?

A moment later, you are in your thirties,
staring at yourself in the mirror,
peering at your offspring in the
eyes QUESTIONING EVERYTHING

A steady stream of

carbonated bubbles float

in unison from bottom to brim

Like a flock of Virginia’s summer

starlings flying in murmuration

Sequestered by a labyrinth of haunting moats

You reflect on when your poems once ended on positive notes

I am the patron saint of doubts and misgivings

I am the quintessential consequence of living

Some nights I drown in the dreary blues

I need someone who can change my views

Staring deliriously into the cunning, blinding sun

Like looking down the barrel of an endless gun

Feeling that comedown

Feeling a little run down

Russia refrain. Russia refrain. Russia please refrain.

As if it were my job to emphasize a magic

That I scarcely believe myself most times

What is it about the shared human experience

That holds such vicious and timeless gravity

Do you sense it?

The shores from which we wave, slowly disappearing

The future: _______________________________

It’s all blank space. The perfect, clean, new canvas

I’ll make my bed and sleep in it too

And for a bit, I’ll still dream about you

I know what this is: self diagnosed

A confrontation with the Good-Times Ghost