Magazine Posts

Do you think your smart?
Do you think your wise?
Do you think of others?
That'll be a surprise.
Can you tell the truth
or are there just more lies?

I weep in silence,
without a tear,
when I see
her memory disappear.
The words I see
inside my mind
are not cruel
nor unkind.
Why, I ask does this scourge
ruin the lives ending
with a saddened dirge?

Remembering a rare hero who enlarged the human heart for epochs to come...............  Read More

There were times, in years past,
when I wanted to be alone.
The changes now; being locked in place,
has created a great desire
to talk to someone, face to face.

What happens when your
mind starts to go?
When you no longer remember
all that you know
and everything in front
of you, has no name.
It's something you knew;
a simple instruction of put on
your slippers, when you arise,
is met with puzzlement and surprise.
When you look at a shirt on a chair
and say to me, "Is this it?"
At that moment, I have become aware
you know nothing of what I say.
So, I help you now to get
ready for another new day.

What can I do?
What can I say,
When you leave me
Here in my dismay.

I do not like
the words that I write,
for some are cruel
and others quite trite.
Has the hate of one person
ruined my one good trait,
or must I rethink the words
and I can write and wait?

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.

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.

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.