Maybe not

•October 6, 2015 • Leave a Comment

I used to have a place to sit out back behind the shed
Where I would watch the leaves begin their painting from green to red to dead,
A place where thoughts of contentment and resentment filled a hanging head,
A place that I was OK to say, that this is a heavy head’s humble home,
A place that never really let me feel alone,
There are chairs there now and other things from other people,
Sacrilege done to my bare bones seat where I could talk to myself in the sunrise’s heat,
Where I could think that things aren’t all that bad and I’d think of good times that I’ve had,
Now there’s nothing there for me,
And little comfort in my little room,
And I pray every day that living this way will mercifully murder me soon,
Maybe it’ll change and get turned around in some strange way,
Maybe I’ll find safe again,
Maybe I’ll be comfort again,
That’ll be the day…

It is

•September 25, 2015 • Leave a Comment

I like to sit a few feet above Main Street,
Guitar in my hand and the breeze by my side,
making sickening racket for the poor passers by,
Sometimes they look to find the hurt child that surely must be squealing,
Or the death howling kitten that had to be stricken with tire tread syndromes to make that kind of noise,
It’s the cacophony of running down the aisle and simultaneously smacking all the kids toys,
I’d apologize except that if I did then they’d know my position,
I’m a silent sound assassin with a passion for noodling while the cars are passin’,

Sometimes I think it’s the last pretty thing that I can offer,
Sometimes it’s as awful as my attitude,
Sometimes it comes on its own,
Sometimes I try to find it and it leaves me so alone,
Sometimes it’s angels that confess in your ear and sometimes it’s the devil himself,
Sometimes it sounds like crying,
Sometimes it’s all I have left when I wish that I was dying,
But it’s always there, it’s always a friend,
Never sometimes,
Just always to the end.

The Fall

•September 22, 2015 • 1 Comment

Coming alive again at a time when the world seems to end,
And the leaves fall dead like things fall through,
I sit in the streetlights with my decisions,
And I think of all of you,
All of the things that I didn’t do,
And the we way we all knew, we always knew,

So I write this for you,
The regrets that keep my bedside warm,
And the fires I can’t stop lighting inside to torch the man I tried to hide,
And the tears that snuff ’em every time,
From the crier to the scolder,
To the bastard that grew so much bolder,
And the boy who wanted open arms,
I write for the voices that come with the wind,
Through dead tree branches and how we snap when we give,
I’m writing for the games I’ve played,
Grateful for the ones I’ve lost, and weeping for those I’ve won,

I come alive in times of dying,
Thriving on a lack of living,
I’m the goldfish still circling after all these years,
And I can’t even see the leaves changing from here

•September 12, 2015 • 1 Comment

Minute by minute I sink deeper in it
The shaking and pacing all encasing,
Trying to wring blood from from my own two hands,
Trying to see there’s something more inside,
Better than the fear or the faults that I hide,
Self pinned goodguy badges won’t help to hold it back,
There were lines in the sand, deep as those on my face,
And I passed them by, without a thought, so many waves ago,
When the sun sets today I think I might pray that I can see it again tomorrow,
Though nights this long have ways of changing minds,
It’s just a star, there are a billion just like it,
It doesn’t need me to know it’s there,
It’ll keep on being what everyone keeps seeing,
Keep your eyes in the skies and know that star is wishing he had a moon,
The trouble with stars that wish you’d see them, is that they burn out a little too soon.

•July 18, 2015 • Leave a Comment

If anyone following this happens to be contacted by DaLouranne, ignore anything she sends or says.  She has never had or asked permission to post anything I’ve written.  We’ve already contacted authorities in the past but it looks like someone is too stupid to get the idea.

Good old fashioned stalker.  Sad.

Strike 1

•July 18, 2015 • Leave a Comment

They were very simple fucking instructions. Leave my family and I alone. Leave my shit alone.

Fuck. Off.

Memory Lane

•July 13, 2015 • Leave a Comment

I think of places from my past I’d much rather sit to do this,
Places where the points between a dream and a thought might kiss,
Fading colors tell me of memories I know I’ll have to miss,

Like the storm drain in the woods, deep ravine, the serene unseen,
Or the lakeshore by my home, all alone, pebble laced broken glass, fishbone,
Railroad crossing, township line, hope ahead, home behind,

A bridge like a parasol blocks out the sun, stolen brews, too young to lose,
My basement stacked with new old news, peeling paint, foundation furrows growing mildew,
Blue plaid bedroom, handpicked beach glass jars, Loblaw’s, the bar, baseball cards,
On top of the school with unplanned malice, didn’t get caught, up with the chalice,

Across the street from that girl’s house, the convenience store where you stole your smokes, that spot behind the football field where you took your first toke off a fuckin’ Pepsi can, your Grandma’s house and Saturday nights, the nervous excitement from Mom-Dad fights, little league games, detention, the bus rides home and the long walks down the street in the middle of the night just hoping that something, anything, would happen,

I’m still strolling…

I think of places from my future where I one day hope to do this,
Places where old memories and crowning moments kiss,
You just gave birth to a memory, so just remember this.


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