Magazine Posts

Down the path, like a runaway car,
the lives now lost, near and far.
You care not; that's easy to see,
as your lies will live an eternity.
As a president you are the worst,
when your lies cause your World to burst.
Citizens both far and near,
want to know when you'll disappear,
in the coming months, it will do
for next November, please vote Blue.

The words are dead,
and they shall remain
dead forever
in life's stupid game.

I cannot say these
words to thee
nor write them
for you to see.

You get more bored
when watching TV,
as you now say,
telling it to me.

The ache in my back,
the words in my head,
have caused me to leave
my warm, toasty bed.

Why is that? Oh, I don't suppose
any one will answer the question,
or throw up your hands. Heaven knows.

Words are peculiar; some need to soften
for when I write them down,
I may use them quite often.
I write until my pen runs dry
and grab another, giving it a try.
It writes so faintly I utter a cry.
"For Pete's sake, leave me alone."
So into the trash it must go.
Two pens in one sitting, kind of absurd
as the last pen is sticking.
I like to write, using a pen,
for if I err, I must write it again.

I sit here, with pen in hand,
wracking my brain. I do not understand,
why the words won't come again; flow free
and pop into my head so willingly.

A far away land
at distance to thee,
is where I will wander,
when I search for me.
Travel today
is not the best choice,
unless sitting in a tube
is cause to rejoice.
Crammed into the can
of a cabin of size,
leaves no space to breathe
or to optimize,
the safety you need.
Lord please help me,
complete my next deed.

I don't understand
and I can't see,
why there is a sudden
interest in me.

Have I done something
to make your life worse
or is it because you don't
like the words in my verse?

I wish I knew.
I hope that now,
the next time I see you
you will allow
a virtual hug.

Can you go home again,
when you're sixty-five
and none of you parents,
are still alive?

A waft of smoke
from the small fire,
with intense heat,
stoking a new desire,
to live once more,
under the bright star
and to be the man
you know you are.

Sitting around a campfire at night
the front of you is warm.
Your back is cold as ice.
Telling stories of days gone by;
embellishing as needed
to maintain the lie.

There is no comfort
in sitting here,
unless of course
the cold will disappear.

The song you sang,
I've heard before.
About a lost love,
not here anymore.
I know not of love.
I'll say it once more,
for my personal feelings
lay on the floor.
No feeling of despair .
No feeling of loss.
No feeling to care
about another person.
It's not for me
or the pain in my heart.
It is still there with thee
as my soul tears apart.

A garden child, I am,
as I sit here,
amongst the green
a most pretty scene.

Heading South.
Going bad.
Your the best
Thing I've had.

It's not too late,
I'll tell you so,
But it is hate,
Stealing the show.

Not hate for you
For this I know.
It is for fate,
Which takes your Soul.

There is no cure
For this terrible plight,
But it helps not
Through the dark night.

What can I do
To keep you now?
Bringing back the joy
For loving you.

I must go now, I really must.
Trust is a word, used by a few,
I trust not others but do trust you.
I will do so until I have turned to dust.