Poets and Schizophrenics Band-Aid

“If we took all the poets and banded them together.  Could problems arise or self-solve?”

Lyricists to our own plights…Could prose set a tilted world right?

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“What of my yet undocumented pain?  Would my own words make me sane?”

‘It is always something’…I heard a philosophical schizophrenic say.

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“Living well and beautifully and justly are all one thing.” ― Socrates

“What if we all banded together today?”

Prelude to the Words

They say, the word takes discipline.

Loose fabric erratically woven between my life and yours.


Could it also be a death sentence?

Litter for the mind…for which there is no cure.

I have haggled with scholars…

and, pillars of a park bench.

I have thrown sticks and stones with menacing dogs…

To find where it is…

my words belong.

The chirping crickets are fading fast in my bedraggled head.

Releasing chaotic composure.

My composition?

Words I had hope to have.

Words I had hope to have said.


Booking Forgiveness

If this, single entity, called forgiveness…

were a book.tc cannon 4

It would be open…

amassed with complex, simple and congeal words.

Each letter…sharp as, the finest blade.

Still…the voyage of…forgetting…would not be saved.

I could, we could, the winds could…embody the same chapter…

The same verse…over and over.

Understanding would stand alone…misspelled.

Ill behaved.

Oh, how I have hoped…to pen the story of a world…

‘giving back all that it took.’

Chapters filled with mended hearts.

A romantic plot where love builds a home.

And, pain is driven be car…

far, far, away.imageedit_103_6772513128

But vision is lost…current day…in the burning building of thought.

Leaving a closed book…

With hope being accosted.

A victim of high cost.


Write with Me

Air and life.

Pen to parchment.

Keys on a board.

Far exceeding the edge of a clandestine knife.

Words dug out of a deep hypnotic hollows

with the edge of a blade, mirrored by dictated passages…

Letters, various, sashay-ing into short sentences.

Someday…soon I had hoped to feel less shallow.


Head strong, book smart, another phrase, another’s way.

Feverishly wanting to preserve, I began to write my own words.

Short prose of pigments, flowers that flow.

Bouncing balls encompassing…where I had been.

And, where I wanted to go.


I gave no true thought to redemption upon someone else’s sentence.

Or, holding a dull shank to my detention.

In the rural mayhem, of my life.

A gift had been given to me…rather innocuously.

Nothing comes to mind…in the dirt…correct, grammatically.


My predator became the prey with the verse of my own words.

Rendering this menacing voice.

Pushing it further down the page.

Bidding it absurd.

Random Wordsmith

It rambles.

It rolls.

It changes from a pedigree to a troll.

Never is it about a walk in the woods on a cloudy day.

Never is it lessons from leaving a cake out in the rain.

Creations in the mind…often weary.

Word pies for the leery.

Leaving the creator with no true sense of destiny.

The rations for the irrational…never a luxury.

I assume there are worse things than rolling words up hill and letting them tumble.

Letting them go.

Silly idle hands for hyperactive thoughts…crashing into trees down below.

But I am just a laborer and pushing random words uphill…

And, that is all I’ll ever know.

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