Magazine Posts

I'm sorry to say
but what I see
is a new bitterness,
slowly coming over me.
An anger I feel,
a strange, mixed sensation
that is now being caused
by an extreme frustration.
I am greatly bothered,
there's nothing I can do
to remove the pain,
far away from you.
Please, do forgive me,
the one that I love.
I need some help,
from God, up above.

When I see your face,
in the Moon's radiated light,
it causes me to wonder
and enjoy the sheer delight;
knowing you're here with me,
where I like you to be.

I hold her tight,
we do not speak.
I feel the tears
run down my cheek.

What am I to you?
What are you to me?
Can you do better, when you see,
the light of day so readily?
Do I know if you
can be trusted to do,
those things that you
are not likely to?
I am not clear on that note,
but I did mail in my vote.

What the heck is the matter with me
I've been up for over an hour
and now it is about, twenty to three.
I think my body is starting to fray
and that it may be soon, I go away.
Good Lord in heaven, if that is to be,
do it quickly, so there's no suffering for she.
I love you my dear one, I truly do,
but I'm not liking this life
that has brought Dementia to you.

He once dated a coal miners daughter,
who's main drink was bourbon and water.
No diet cola or milk for she.
She drank, an occasional, sour mash whiskey.
There wasn't always a drink in hand
as she often sang in a country band.
Her hair was long; a scraggly mess,
and she always wore a beautiful dress.
She wasn't a "lost cause", you see,
but my daughter in law, soon to be.

So many words.
So little time,
In writing them;
making them rhyme.
What to do,
with cluttered head,
spewing out words,
that are said.
Not to complain
about or be
on the road
to my reverie.

I can no longer tell,
if I'm on my way to hell
or if I've already arrived.

It is that time of the year,
with most of the leaves, falling down,
when cutting the plants, in the ground,
is a task, I care for not,
for the beautiful foliage, that was begot.

If my whining about life doesn't stop.
I may have to set up a shop.
A shop that's full of sorrow and pity,
And isn't the only one in this city.
Now if I write a sad ditty
And then you might think I'm witty.