What peace is spoken of?
What normalcy?
More war? Further widening the gap
Between the rich & the poor?
Another mean-nothing speech,
Full of thoughts and prayers
Never to be carried to term?
Bills brought to the floor
Only to be stalled by their authors?
Flirting with failure
From manufactured crisis, and with
Pointless battles over culture.
Never have the oppressive been more direct
In their inability to lead
Views, values, beliefs;
Scavenging their remains
Akin to common vultures.

Gonzo goes out
with a 45 blast.
He was kicking *** in Aspen,
we knew it wouldn't last.
The rambling, gambling
man of journalism
put Fear and Loathing on
the map,
but in the end,
he couldn't stay.
It's bat country.

Some poems don't
work.
No amount of
tweaking will
fix it.
You can't finger it until
it comes.

Push the delete
button and
start over.
You write because
you have to.
It's in your cells.

You're a salmon,
swimming up
stream to stay
alive.
You write because
the nuthouse yawns,
and beckons.
It waits.

The cage door is
open, and the
water is
tainted with
mercury.
Fly away, or die.

If the writing
isn't working,
go fishing,
eat a tangerine or
some brussel sprouts.
Be livid
Be silly.
Study the *****
and the orchid.

Think about what the
color black tastes like, or if
pink whispers or yells.
And write until
the trivialities take
flight from your
life.
In the surrendering,
triumph will come.

I seclude myself

in two rooms: one made of stone --


and one made of time.

All I have to do is show up,
Gain momentum;
Give you one last rep,

Another verse
To finish this poem.

I have always dreaded
Doing the plank,
Now I can hold it
For a full minute,
Without tearing up.

Lift me up

Talent is not enough

Writing is a muscle,
I had become rusty —
Now planning my sessions in

The more I work out
The more I want to write.

Create,
Train hard

The benefits of a sweat
Back to the pleasure
of my pen,

I am looking forward
To my best poem yet.

I'm in a cool group.
To stay on top
of my writing, and to
promote and market
my poetry, I often
publish online.
If Lord Byron could
hear that.

In this place that
I belong,
I have deadlines.
I procrastinate until
the very last day, and then
scribble some ******
lines and get angry with
myself for putting the
writing off.

I have a couple of
weeks before I need
to write a sonnet or villanelle.
I'm getting anxiety.
It's not producing the
desired effect of
hard work or discipline.
No
Not that.
It is getting me thinking.
That is sometimes productive,
and usually comical.

I'm thinking about
the 15 months I've
been sober.
For many years,
I was miserable.
Drinking and writing.
Writing and drinking.
Holding the bottle of
***** to my shivering
lips to get the last
spider of liquid.
My clothes smelled of
decay and cowardice, and
everything tasted like
rotten meat.

Now, I have a beautiful
maple desk that my three
cats like to sleep
on while I write
poems about
procrastination and sobriety.
Such fuzzy black miracles.
They twitch as they
dream of fish and catnip,
and just maybe they
dream about writing a
sonnet for me.
We are all
addicted to something.

It's right after I wrote your message
That I had to write this here
Please know I dont hightlight tragedy
But this page, is full of fear...

It's also full of a bunch of NEXT ****T

To single out fear is but a guise!
one written so as to throw you off,
In hopes that you realize
That I write for more than just
Some cathartic sort of prize

It's a vehicle, A medium
unique as song and dance-
Like water color or oil paints
The rhythmic rhymes entrance

A girl with a crush
every pure thought in her heart
she buries deep
until she misses
the warmth of spring
the romance in the summer
and the fall season comes
only to realize that love is gone
the days
when she didn't have the courage
to say
the words
bloom in regret
black blue grenade
shrapnel wound
seems an eternity
when she carefully peels back memories
wrapped so tightly in time
she starts to see
a scintilla
pink and odd
a clutch of stars
dark red and blinking
every bit as pellucid
as the teardrop coalesced
in her eyes.