Not a poem. I hurt; like a Frankenstein monster. Iron fist. Unrelenting.
I stole myself away from thee and me, for love of sweet Mary Jane.
Within this pilgrim’s soul exists a hungry beggar waif, who can never afford a moment of indifference or distraction. Alert to every aching nuance
From the first remembered breath, I was running to escape. I didn’t need a map. It didn’t matter which direction. It hurt too much for any fool to s…
I was addressed today in the secret silent language that everyone knows; except for me. It was assumed I’d know exactly
Not so long ago I was convinced you were the culprit, the masked robber of my sacred trust.
The old priest gazes out upon his… each head bowed before the sacred… A scarred and broken bodied warrio… seeking inner peace and final abso… An elderly wealthy man of commerce…
Who’s gonna throw my pitiful ashes into the holy mother Ganges? Who’s gonna hold it as their sacre… Who’s gonna know the need for this… I’ve seen so many nameless shadows
Alone, in the same old crowd, trying to ignore this stifling pain. I am but
Are you the one I have no words f… Are you the one who seeks the space between these lines? I used to think I’d know you inst… Now I don’t know anything at all.
A sudden gust of bitter wind from somewhere hot and foul, whooped and howled throughout the scattered waste and scrabble down that God-forsaken alley.
It seems the only way to reach the mountain-top, is through the desert wasteland. It is only there that one might come to learn
The old man, who thinks he’s dying, approached me with these words. I am sorry
A subtle movement, a facial expression, a particular posture, the constant hint of danger; as if he were here again,
It is me. I am stripped down to my most naked intentions; having worn so many coats and less than noble guises.