A Poets Lament

I write poetry,
For there is nothing ugly about prose
Regardless of how horrific,
or sad ones woes
With a simple rhyme, an elegant flair
All of a sudden,
There's no "out of place" hair

I am a poet
And poets can be sad
It's really ok,
Weather you think it good or bad
That's what we do, we spin a web
With words, and sounds
To seduce your head.

Don't ask me, (so silly) - if I "feel"
Of course I do- in surreal!
In me it's all beauty,
From whatever edge you spin it,
Even if,
borrowed truth
is all that's within it.

House of Cards

With the strategy of precision
Meticulously driven
by Adrenal apprehension
Placed carefully, one on top
Praying the foundation won't drop,
Collapsed.
Replay, relapsed.
The ace of spades;
glue that pervades.
A steady even hand,
- everyone tips on their toes in the sand.
Along comes, the dreaded wind
That wreaks havoc on
The work that you defend.

It's all just pretend.

Go to www.payingintention.com to see the latest episode of my new Podcast, Paying Intention