Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Me
For me, I don't know. For me, I have doubts. I am in blindness, but for sad visions of that old love of mine. When it comes to these sightless eyes, I touch my spirit soul. I stare. I cry meekly to a lonesomeness that is forever mine.

Home
We'll meet again. Me and a poem. A prisoner of despair and want, I'll release its chains and welcome it in rhyme and prose to a new home.

Whiskey
I got friends of mine. They walk through a valley of whiskey. Oh my, they fall out of their minds. The whiskey does that, and it worries me. But they're friends, and when they fall I kick the bottle aside and carry what's unsteady away.

1 comment:

these temporal rooms said...

this hard story resonates of men alone, like myself, of love lost
solitude, and picking up the pieces.
i am looking in the collective mirror.

~robert