I miss you so,
you're here with me.
Where's your mind now
in this life's reality?

When I was young and so naive
to the ways of this World, ours,
I would fall in love, at a moments notice
with someone I had just met.
Of course it was infatuation, which I felt,
as the blood coursed through my veins.
The newness of a face, with much charm
would bring forth thoughts of love. Then
the cold, heart of reality, would set in,
as you began to realize what
a mess I was in. Perhaps a date
or meet for a Coke and fries,
for when the truth struck you,
is when you became more aware
of your emotions, which flew at your
core, of your vulnerable, unprotected youth.

A hole in the ground.
A post in hand,
asks the question,
once more, again.
Should I flee
or go away,
to a life
of lonely exile?
Not for me.
Not my style,
for it won't
make me smile.

A maddening sound.
A mournful noise
on this morning,
the missing toys,
when a child,
much like me,
would be selfish;
not sharing joys.
Play by himself,
no other boys,
now a loner.
What a mess,
it's my life,
I now confess.

I sit, with pen in hand,
all the words I have written,
have come with no plan.
No plan to follow.
No plan for me,
for there will never
be more hypocrisy.
Two hours sleep,
is not the way,
to start off the month
in a sleepy, tired day.

When the words, in my head,
gather anew,
to form into sentences of one
or a few,
with some sensible writings of
more than two,
be eroded by use and time,
as they do,
for my life's simple pleasure,
caring for you.

I listen, with great aplomb.
Some one said I've written a bomb.
How to react, when you have heard,
the definition of an absurd word?
Respond gracefully, is what you do.
Not with anger, but a thank you.
Thanks for inputting your words, lame,
perhaps I will write a new refrain.

Is it too hard to say hello,
Or to shake the hand, I see?
Or bump an elbow or a fist,
is the greeting, done today,
for all the hugs and kisses,
have left and gone away.

When I was a young child,
I loved to explore, the creek
which passed by our back door.
The sound of the water, over rock
and stone; the attack on my senses,
as water, gurgled and splashed,
are memories, from a long ago past.
Turn over a rock and you would find,
a little creature; a periwinkle.
It's shell was hard; sand and grit,
to protect the larvae, living within.
They hatched in the Spring, a May fly,
and the fish, in the stream, ate again.
There were little fish, a "Bullhead"
looked like a small catfish, to me.
As my recall is slipping away,
but I have remembrances, mine,
which I will recall again and again.

Talent comes and the talent
will soon formant,
if the skill you have
is a compliment.
Come you now, forlorn soul,
you can repent,
if the words your hear,
are heaven sent.
It matters not to me,
for this bent,
as long as you still
pay me your rent.

The years go fast,
as do the days.
There is no slowing,
during this life's phase.
Get you up early,
go to bed late.
Burn the candle,
at both ends,
is now my fate.

The words in my head,
keep spinning around,
much like a new blender,
but without any sound.
So why does it happen?
My words aren't renown,
unless you have mistaken me
for an old, foolish clown.