Poems

Is it writer's block, or manic depression?

they're very similar, so up for discussion

whichever's the case, one thing's for sure

selling a book should be the best cure

I'm wide awake, with my pain all in tow

and what I'm feeling, certainly I'll know

if I just remain sober, focus, keep trying

worst case scenario, rolling over, dying

It's funny of course, in every ha-ha way

struggling to find something real to say

yet a writer's brain never stops looking

or quits dreaming, of being a book king

I promised myself I'd not again use crutches

and alcohol wise, I've amassed big bunches

of days without uses, never making excuses

and I'm proud in that area, feel zero hysteria

But in one spot I'm weak, my mind's a toddler

for my lady Mary Jane, a desire to coddle her

is sometimes overwhelming, as in right here

yes, I give in for now, beauty trumped all fear

Oh, I'm high as a kite, my mania's ascending

like an alpinist falling to his untimely ending

and I'm ruing my friends, my decision to try it

cos naught changed, not even one tiny bit

So, I'm back on the wagon, gotta be all soberly

in a shot gunning seat where I'll watch over me

starting out once more, this to be my last time

letting go her sweet canes, little helper of mine

Hey there you rappers, is this your time

to live like Kings and Queens of rhyme?

but didn't you forgot, you're only human

filled with the snot, shite, piss, puss and

phew man! What you doing now already

been done, by the English, all Frenchmen

every Spanish, Dutch, and Germanic son

why their royalty's had enough gold to buy

all the bling on the planet, yet here you cry

like it be all okay to roll your greed upon it

yet it didn't make them Northern European

ignoramuses happy, what makes you think

yo big, dumb ass any more or less nappy?

I'm not going to make it, but none of you will either 

we'll each die eventually, so we're losers to the last

hey, don't look at me like that, I didn't make the rule

yet the rule states when we don't 'make it' we've lost

and once we've 'lost' then by definition we're 'losers'

which is fine, since we also didn't make the laws of 

mortality, hence death's not an option, nor our fault

however, it's not okay for you to believe you're not a 

part of the rules, somehow you alone are above it all

better than someone else, because that would make 

you a delusional fool, an ignorant human in a sea of 

the soon to be dead, selfishly pushing and pulling us 

down to help you up, unwisely thinking this will keep 

you afloat, when in truth it's only destroying our hope

delaying a blinding end to just another flash in the pan

Now I'm in trouble, and heading for a quibble

it's haircut time, want to look like Ish Kibibble

Or Lloyd Christmas's cut, from Dumb and Dumber

need to goof it all up so's to get past this bummer!

Never too late, not until the final breath's taken

Nihilism's bad myth, and all followers forsaken

fresh leaves to be turned, new thought's spoken

these are some hopes of we not yet heartbroken

don't wait for the gasp, a last thought of poor me

now my chances are gone, oh why couldn't I see?

What we did is now done

Where we went is bygone

There is no going back

to that pubescent dawn

What we had is long lost

How we lived oft forsworn

Every living soul cursed

with the gift of being born

What we said is erased

Every minced word thus mute

Leaving only the rife

dying notes of the flute

With but one gasp at hand

When all trances are riven

The last resting hope is

to just be forgiven

I went into male modeling late in my teens

handsome I, strong, plus identically twined

a mentor bade us shave and ready to shoot

then, closely examining our photo readiness

he said, "you've missed a spot Marshall, on

your cheeks, right up here, can't you see it?"

but I couldn't, I didn't recognize the fineness 

of the follicles, they were all but invisible to 

my uncorrected vision, an eyesight needing 

glasses but never getting, and the subtly of 

such minuscule bad focus, including inability 

to read facial expressions, is the culprit, and 

not I, of my unseeing, forsaken, total undoing

Life's so short, and it keeps getting shorter

I loved the one I have, it's the one I ordered

But tics now are dear, needing reclassification

I'm reordering here, these my new declarations

'Tis a very strange thing, both eerie and weird

when something is seen or heard after the act

of dying, moving into the posthumous realms

yet quite enthralling as well, and breathtaking

realizing what is being witnessed can never be

duplicated, and perhaps a dawning comes that

life's all which is allowing us to be creationists

so we'd better carpe diem every single moment

We've never heard of them, because their kudos

lived and died solely in the eras of their lifetimes

yet a writer comes along, yes, a most dear scribe

and plucks these stories from the dry, dead past

wringing subtle glory out from lost and forgotten

bringing timeless clarity back into a here and now