To write or not to write…or is it to right or not to right wrongs… at least, as I perceive them to be in this world rife with reasons to bear resentments like sentiments of one’s own semblance of resemblance, looking back in the mirror, a reflection of insurrection, as we look upon ourselves with…

There is a measure of leisure in my insanity, which overcomes me in a moment of outrageous raging rage because of my immature stage and stages, wherein I lack the capacity to clearly see what it is I am becoming as my mind loses itself to the blood pulsating through the veins of my brain,…

Lazy Sunday afternoon, call me to rest In the beloved arms of your Blessedness, Where war and peace reside as One With neither side seeing if they won, And only sweet memories of forgotten lore Are remembered deep within the soul, Wherein Life itself is truly had by all Who seek not the e’er-persistent call…

I do not know how to write a poem or anything else like it. I must be written by the poem or the verse or the prose, which I am trying to write and unwrite, till I become one with the poem or prose, and it undoes everything I have done, else I will be…

A poem a day Keeps the doctor away And the demons at bay So that all that really does stay Is the dogged reality that is really a stray When I do not have very much of anything to say Except that I wish I would with my own self and soul stay For a…

It’s the easiest thing to write a poem– So easy that I do not understand How anyone cannot write a verse Long or terse Forward and in reverse Thinking or not of the hearse Where all shall spell out their last verse. More than mere rhyming, a poem Is a bit of words in lines…

Ha ha ha! I laugh at the storm and swirling tempest Not because I am so confident or brazen or strong Nor because I am a storm myself of swirling chaos Nor because I am a solid tree of stolid stance Nor because I have a slew of cash aid to throw its way Nor…

For me to write is about as painful as Constipation, when the shit is really Stuck. In. The. Inner. Workings. Of. The gut. And I’ve got no sort of rhyme Or flow–just a deep abiding angst That one day this shit will come Out and provide me with some Relief. Oh, but when there is…

There is, I hear, a difference of opinion On the way that a poem, it should be written– Whether with random lines of nonsense-making, Or with metered lines of rhythm and rhyming, Or with unrhymed lines that adhere to a meter, Or with a sensible story that tells the reader Something meaningful and useful for…