loosen your grip on unmentionable fantasy and

reality will be forced to step in

bringing with it pain and its brother joy

on so goeth the theory of the dead pen

some would call it writer's block

I define it as punching the system out of shock

come to my rescue sweet madness

but make not a sound

for I may not be the only one to witness

its worried war like round

battling worry like a young prize fighter

working for the gold

giving me nearly everything to live for

but nothing tangible to hold

I burn up in this place so cold

what if I meet my destiny and find it has been sold

will I be small or large enough to fit into my

predestined mold

right now my troubled thoughts are a tad bit cracked

and against this wall of stone cold indifference

the essence of my soul has been critically backed

I'm somehow like a rail way car I run along on a

steel railed track

I can't seem to make it fully home but I can get back

everything I say anymore requires some measure of


I can pick up on the truth in dishonesty and find

fiction in fact

with so many unfinished sentences in my slightly lost

soul with this shovel like pen I'll one day manage to

fill up the hole

and when I'm finished I'll sit down at the top of the

hand made heap

take an ecstatic breath then wildly weep...........

( written Feb 25, 1992 am)

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