Sitting sequestered in his chair
cheap pen poised to write a line
which he'll pluck from the thin air;
unschooled, unlearned how can he dare
to try to write a poem that's fine?

At once his pen drops to lined page.
A thought enters his empty head
a thought of beauty (he shuns the rage)
written with no regard for its gauge
using only how it sounds instead.

Thoughts are collasal higher then skyscrappers more like sky chasers

If ever evolved into vapor one thought could consume a society and make front page of a paper

WHILE DOUBTS ARE MINISCUE I SHOOT THEM IN THE POCKET LIKE POOL

DOUBT IS LIKE THAT ONE KID WHO NEVER LEAVES THE SIDE OF THE POOL

My thoughts have after thoughts pictures and images that take after art

I ought to put my thoughts on stage I apologize for the sarcasm

.
to faith, the physicist remains adverse
determined there’s no god, says there’s no need
for a designer, as the universe
itself, could be the cause of its own seed

with postulates of branes (no, no not brains)
and strings and bubbles (scientific slang)
while using math enough to cause mass migraines
they guess what happened prior to the bang

although the math displays what just could be
it seems to me a foolish thing to claim
with tools of only one reality
one can disprove what’s outside known domain

’’love that night’’

That night never ceases to be
a night of my life
of all my dreams,
of those small little pieces of love
I had always forever nursed
in my minds youthful eyes
that day, decades away.