I haven't written in months.

Some say all poets are sad...
And I can see why that's common.

It's easier to write when you're sad,
Angry
Lonely
Afraid

At least in my experience.

But lately, I've been okay.

The doctors gave me diagnoses and medications and sent me on my way.

The chemicals in my brain are balancing.
The music in my heart begins to play once more.
Even the birds outside my window begin to sing again.

A wild Mc screaming shit
God's remix people equipped 
I got you feces
 rappers puzzled pieces kicked 
in love with the sweet eclipse
When I rap I gotta hold back
 Lest the crowd think it's a demon trick
Lord who am I to exist
 My computer chip overloaded thought in my brain explains why I shoot for shots empty clip and the rudest God
fort Knox
 Sunny wit
man this judas cop poor Bart
Tummy fit damn I'm lit thru the heart
pop tart
sweet as the ambulance coming

One dark and frightful night
Plundering through the woods
Just as fast as I could
Looking for a glimpse of daylight

When suddenly I felt a tug
Followed by a strange sound
My feet came off the ground
As my captor let out a gutteral UGH

Dragging me through the brush
Callous hand around my hair
He moved without a care
Only my screams forced him to rush

Dropping me next to the fire
A glimpse of a man within the flame
The lack of conversation was such a shame
Under his gentle gaze, I began to tire

Sometimes in simply sharing,
friends tell you things that hurt.
With only good intentions,
they cut you to the quick.
It's not always truth.
That tares you up inside.
But their motives are revealed
in every single line.
Only through a dialogue,
can things be rectified!
And finally heal the hurt,
held there deep inside!

Poetic license I employ
to match inventive
wisdom and witticism
regarding (brother in law of mine
husband of eldest sister of same)
interspersing, initiating, incorporating
fabrication whenever possible,
and only the subject himself
can discern fact from fiction
and get a chuckle.

Things that make me smile,
A baby's laughter, pure and wild,
The warmth of the sun upon my face,
A gentle breeze, a sweet embrace.

The smell of rain, a petal's kiss,
A loved one's touch, pure bliss,
A cup of tea on a chilly day,
A handwritten note, words that stay.

A silly joke, a playful jest,
An unexpected person, a new guest
The beauty of a starry night,
The birds in the midst of flight.

We languish when our lines are lean.
(You poet pals know what I mean.)
Our pen, sometimes, outright refuses
to trace the touch of tender Muses.

We suffer when we force our rhyme.
You’d think we’d carried out a crime!
like Chamberlain, that crass appeaser
or Brutus boldly stabbing Caesar!

We worry when our verse won’t glow,
and poet’s passion will not flow.
(John Keats said poems should flow freely,
like streams, sun’s rays or blood, ideally.)

Sometimes in the darkest night, I see alone,
Sometimes I wander far, searching for a home,
Sometimes the stars above, they seem so far away,
Sometimes I wish for warmth, to brighten up my day.
Sometimes I wish I'm only me within

Sometimes I pen my thoughts in letters never sent,
Sometimes I find rest in the words I've never meant,
Sometimes I listen to the wind's sad tune,
Sometimes I dream of a love that left too soon.
Sometimes I wish to be images I see.

I find a reflective fog
outside my window this morning.

It hides the vibrant signs of fall -
the changes in spent leaves
not ready to let go of summer,
ordained to flaunt their fingertips.

I am given no cordial greeting from the backyard.
It holds no personality, save one late rose,
pink and dewy, peeking out toward me
from the gray.

There is no memory of the colors
of the world - the cardinal, the jay,
the periwinkle I planted around the steps.

Precarious Time

Looking back though, I found comfort
in ephemeral things. Birds flying in formation,
off to southern climes. Wood from a fire,
always destined to be embers.

None of these things lingered
beyond their established purpose,
but they were always predictable,
offering modest shelter
from your meandering heart.