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i posted this as a sidebar and decided i would put it here,its just what i do....

i write,
so called poetry,
while sitting,
in darkened alleys,
surrounded by reality,
yet full of insanity,
fiction is everywhere,
but my pen is free,
i dream of,
sketching churches,
in the darkness of the night,
as i write,write,write,
surrounded by ravens,
on a stormy night,
searching for forgiveness,
from ten thousand sins,
committed a thousand years ago,
against me,
by me,
as the charcoal darkens my fingers,
the ink flows from my soul,
releasing my pain,
into an,
unforgiving world,
my skeleton hides in shame,
leaving flesh and blood,
running throught the gutter,
one more church,
one more sin,
ten thousand words,
invade my soul,
no where to go,
so little time,
as lady death,
gently takes me by the hand,
no more pain,
where did i put that damn charcoal………….

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