I try to write, what's going on,
In this feeble mind of mine.
Some thoughts just pop, then are gone.
Others just appear, without reason or rhyme.
Don't ask me where they come from,
I can't answer, as I don't know.
I just have them in my mind,
And will put to paper, for show.

The life we led is with us still,
Encumbered by much angst and ill will.
What do we do, at this point in time,
Is pour a glass of red or white wine.

Some say it is a talent that I've got.
Others might say my talent is naught.
Full of flaws, that are open to see
Except the love for my family.

Why must the sky be blue,
When blue is such a sad color?
When I think of you
My soul turns blue,
But when I see your face
Or hear your voice,
I may then rejoice
And feel another color.
Yellow is nice; warm and mellow,
But may not attract a fellow.
So, get yourself back down
For your eyes of brown.
If your face turns red
From embarrassment
Or things you've said.
It's kind of nuts
To think of ruts,
That is, in words,
Stuck in our head.