where the writers are

June 17






Cosmic questions cross the sky,

I wonder but don’t ask why

I pitch the tent, but don’t stay the night

I borrow money and don’t pay the rent

I sooth myself but can’t be content

I earn my keep though it is all been spent

The real true meanings are pushed away,

Has ready tragedy come to stay

Forever darkness, no more light of day

Cheerful greeting left to lay

All the poets bring their knives

For blood letting’s become their prize

Here I sit and tend the boat

Rocking dingy out to moor

I play the Raven, black and poor

I dare not speak it but in my mind sing “Never more”






Be wary of magical thinking








You will never take time to tell the truth

You will always take time to tell a joke,

As you run from your life

I see the familiar vapor trails of an unlived life.


When I flee my life through caretaking

I leave the same mist of unfulfilled desire behind me

I look at your potential

And the damage you do by not being here

I turn the magnifying glass on me

And search for the same trends.


I feel abandoned by you

The you, you never were

But always should have been

I pray for the key

Which will get me on the other side

Of the door you never opened.


I hope to live life

As it is

Rather than the comedy

It can never be.