It's three AM
and here I am,
a very tired;
tired old man.
Why can't I sleep,
through another long night,
as I sit and scribe
all these words, so trite.
Writing of a sadness,
is what I now do,
as I think of my friends,
like you and like you.
Is it worth it,
having a sleepless night,
while writing these words,
with no plan in sight?
I hope it is, I really do
for I write for me
and I write for you.

I tire of this writing style,
for words, come not to me.
My mind has slowed to a crawl,
as my body strength does flee.
Words which came along this way,
no longer do they appear to me.
Do I care? Of course I do,
for writing was a pleasure; mine.
Perhaps I need a spark again.
I'll try again, while drinking wine.

When I write about words
laying culled on the floor,
it is a mental image
and means nothing more.
There is nothing more,
nothing more, instead,
the words are those still
lodged in this old head.
My heart will pull forth,
words when I write,
with little of my malice
as I'm not always right.

You promised to love me,
to honor and to obey,
but no one said anything
about your going away.
You cannot leave me,
here, unhappy and alone,
when you were my first love,
who I've always known,
and yet, here, I am the same,
still being near to you,
though you don't remember my name.

I cannot describe what goes through my mind,
when I ask you for something, you cannot find.
It's sitting near you; in front on the floor,
but you don't know the name; never, no more.

From the back corners
of this constrained mind,
comes old memories,
entwined with cobwebs
and brain dust, in all
the nooks and crannies.
Being on the narrow edge
of my own insanity.
This mind is cluttered,
words need to be
scraped free from views
of long, past positions,
to update the way
and think of love.
Don't dwell on the hate.
Re-use the words.
Find a new way
to continue your writing
and say, my life is better
at least on this day.

Dawns early light,
brings forth a new day,
for it is the Sabbath.
God, let us pray.
Pray for our neighbors
and this I must say,
wear a mask in public
and when you play.
Be here for the morrow
and for the next day.
Avoid crowds, as you must,
keeping the virus away.

There is one thing
I wanted to do,
is sing Happy Birthday.
Sing it to you,
a friend of mine
from so long ago.
Today is your day,
today is your show.
Happiest birthday to you
are the words on this page.
Did you tell me,
what is your age?

From my heart,
words came to beguile,
explaining why the
words came with style.
Asking of you, I say
you are looking
marvelous on this day.

Time to arise
and prepare a new dance,
as we approach the beginning
of a brand new romance.
Another beautiful, lovely day,
with a clear sky,
later today.

The words which I write on paper for you,
can come easy. On other days hard to do.
My mind runs in circles and colors of blue,
Red, Brown, Green and Yellow to name a few..
When I write, I have no thought in mind,
for I write the words; words which will rhyme.
I wish I could tell you my feelings today,
but the words fall to paper; that's where they lay.

Why do we demean a pig,
when we call someone a swine?
Is it because they're so messy
or if they squeal or whine,
or when they care not for others,
who detest how they dine?
I'll have some crackers and cheese
with my fresh glass of red whine.