I feel the cold crispness of winter
inside my nose.
Up above, the low hung clouds
reflect the pinkish, orange light
from a hundred street lamps,
marking the boundary way
of the street.
Cars speed by, swirling wind,
about me.
The warmth of my breath
puffs billowy, rhythmically,
as I exhale.
The pounding of my feet,
and occasional dog barking
at my passing, are the only
sounds I hear.
I try not think of the
distant point I'm running to
for if I look and see, it might distract me
from the concentration, that I need,
to attain by goal,
to finish.

So many words, stuck in my head.
Some quite lame; others I dread
To stay within my mind's confine,
Will soon appear to paper, line by line,
To be liked or not and be sublime.
Hopefully you will find those that rhyme.

At what point
in this crazy life,
does one say,
"Enough?"
Enough with the lies,
enough with the cheats.
"Get off my lawn"
You bunch of "dead beats."

Why must I be the way I am?
Feeling guilt about the days,
when I worked and didn't praise
everything you did at home,
taking care of our children, almost alone.
Now we are here, your mind is spent,
no doing the "books" or cooking now.
Unable to function tasks so simple,
It's "My turn," I've said so many times
"to take care of you" as you did I.