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Everything Ago Poetry

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climbed a hundred times.they know that special place…

time never began.beyond any vision we can imagine…

short poems.the freedom they offer…

listen.i have yet to have someone listen to me…

you.hidden away in my heart ever so close…

i’m done.today i end the pain…

sneaking up on 60.and friends and lovers who were by no means real…

making of the artist.and person is replaced with artist…

rejection.those who reject you just for the evidence of reaction…

for you.for you and only you…

twist.that simple dynamic that we all seek so desperately…

gone.and i miss you…

i love art.i envy a great artist…

idle time.when used in such a foul way…

maze.to one friend and then another…

i wish.i close my eyes…

no regrets.wishing things were different…

great life.it’s a great life…

and it hurts.when ill-tempered and unrehearsed words wound others…

slipping away.i now understand what must be done…

courage.i have lost some of those qualities…

images of you.i record my images of you…

wait.for each and every one…

i age.and my opinions mean less…

my silence.a world where i am free…

lost love.i cannot wish upon my dreams…

hate.why is there hate…

hope.the victory will not be yours…

hidden away.sad that you bury so deep…

the problem.questioning yourself is not the problem…

shows up.life just shows up…

silence.but most of all i love the silence in life…

fit.who guided us to kindness…

how much time?i don’t know how much time there is…

at home?and love and hate coexist…

9.11i want to dream of tomorrows…

sunrise.from this we get morning…

if.if i were a sighted man…

doesn’t matter.it’s more than what you are in love with…

sunflower.that it is just as frail, and as fragile…

ask.do you ever sit and dream of what could be?…

my mother.from the woman who tortured my heart as a child…

my goals.my tomorrow, never my yesterday…

just words.can you paint with compassion…

so what?between futility and fate…

my dad.the greatest friend i ever had…

my first epiphany.i can’t believe…

sick.a slow, debilitating complaint…

see.if i were a blind man…

Shame – Poetry written many years agoThere are many who get tired, / In a woman or a man, / for love which goes missing;

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