Poetry, the written word, a silent scream
A whispered fear, or a gentle touch
From my soul to yours, to tell you where
I’ve been but in veiled and hidden images

Some things you must hold on to, keep to yourself
Not to dwell upon, but not to forget
To make the person you have become
Or the one you left behind

So much in the shadows of the mind
Waiting to come forth and join the
The journey we call life
Whether it be amazing or disparaging

Thank you,
when what you gave was not enough
it was enough
that you gave.

It has been fun,
and laughter
and pain.

So long,
farewell
until we meet again.

The being that is you, inside

is finally just getting, here;

the one you need
to blame is greed

not, this scapegoat in the mirror.

This shadow of your more, pensive self

allows the both of you, to have a beer;

but, too much malt
will have you both, blame, fault

on an innocent, scapegoat in the mirror.

Neither one of you, will ever learn

for reasons still, unclear;

as far as I can see
you took the wrong, journey;

when you chose, to blame that scapegoat, in the mirror.

I tried to write within the now
in wee hours of a winter night
it seems I always failed somehow
hunched over pad beneath floor light

Each time a line entered my head
and worked its way through pen to page
"now" had already skipped ahead
"now" had become a long passed age

So I tried to write much faster
fingers moving in a rush
results were just short of disaster
jumbled wordsbecamemeremush