Her Broken Boughet

Tags

heroin, poetry, poets

She arrived on my doorstep looking for a place to stay.
I invited her in with her intellect, wit and sunset eyes.
She placed a broken bouquet on my table.
I paid little attention.

We were both writers. She more abstract than I.
Conversation flowed like a waterfall
And ideas exchanged like a burning inferno.
We fueled each other.

She began to write in riddles.
Riddles that had no answer.
She then began to speak in nonsensical riddles.
It began to distract me from my writing.

So distracted had I become that I asked her to leave.
She left without a word
Into a house of her own
With her broken bouquet.

She lived there alone.
Her friends would visit and soon leave,
Never to return.
Return to her brick wall riddles.

I imagine she is still writing
Her brick wall riddles.
With her broken bouquet
Always close by.

Her broken bouquet is heroin.

The Drinking Man

Tags

alcoholic, alcoholicm, drunk, psychology

The drinking man wakes up every day
And drinks a cup of vodka as if it were water.
He sits down, puts a cigarette in its’ holder and lights it.
He inhales deeply and exhales slowly.

He watches the news on the television
With more interest than had he been sober.
The drinking man has a drink before and after
Having a shower and shave.

He then sets out to go into town
To do what has to be done.
Nothing more Nothing less.
Could he do this sober?
Not at the moment.
Not at the moment.

He returns home and has another drink
Before settling down and writing.
He writes books, poetry and blogs.
Vodka fuels his imagination.

After a while he is drunk and tired.
He goes to lay down for ten minutes
And wakes up four hours later
To find his world blanketed by night time.

He has another drink and continues writing
Until the wee small hours.
He becomes tired and drunk again.
Drunk enough to sleep.

Can the drinking man continue to function like this?
Or will he meet his ultimate gruesome end?

I’m Money

Tags

Bob Dylan, greed, money

It’s nice to know you.
I’ll give you all you think you need.
I don’t have to show you.
You’ll never see your greed.
Bob Dylan never said
He must have had a bad day
But I rule the world.
I have everything to say.

I turn angels into sinners.
Losers into winners.
Make an expert from a beginner.
Turn a sad face into a grinner.
I rule the world.
I’m money.

I own everyone.
They just don’t show it.
Even when they know it’s done
They still won’t show it.
Behind the mask you see
There lies no soul.
You’re as easy as can be
Because I’m your goal.

I’m the opiate of the crowds.
Systemic.
Making you feel
you should be proud.
Pandemic.
I’ll keep you deluded.
To hurt your friends.
I’ve already concluded
That there is no end.

I won’t wait around for you.
There is nothing you can do
You are never coming through.
You will always have the blues.

I rule the world.
I’m money.

The Night Creeper

Tags

nature, night, tree

The Night Creeper is not a person.
The Night Creeper is a tree.
If you catch a glimpse of him
Under the light of a full moon
He resembles an ethereal vagabond.

His roots are his feet.
Two low hanging branches are his arms.
His hair is the drooping leaves atop his form.
Fear not the Night Creeper.

The Night Creeper goes about his business
Of making sure that everyone is safe
In the dead of night.

You may catch a glimpse
Of the shadow of the Night Creeper
On windy nights
When he passes by your window.

Your children may be afraid.
They are too young to understand.
Fear not the Night Creeper.

There is no room for the Night Creeper
Amidst the crowded cities.
He cannot breathe. He cannot move.

Before the sun arises.
Before the birds are awake
The Night Creeper returns to his home.
Alongside his other trees.

By day he is just another tree.
Fitting in with nature
Unknown to anybody.
Fear not the Night Creeper.