Indian Paintbrush

The idylic bliss
that only comes
from leaves
gladly cruching underfoot
and nature
in all its finery
beads of water
drip down from moss draped rocks
and above them all
stands an indian paintbrush
for the woods are my Home
and where I find
meditative tranquilty
in the midst of my chaotic thought

Man, I am sick of all my shit sucking this past month
I'm so creatively dead, everythings become a rehashing of the old with some new thought in it. Maybe I need to do acid again. It sure stopped my poems from sucking in 2007 and inspired me to keep up this blog.

Lies me

a dream a dare to be different
entangled wrapped up like a small child bundled up against the cold
sheathing layers of personality
but behind the closed face...
lies me

I try to hard
I believe that as glass frost a windowpane
my repeated attempts to create
put a wall between me and these lines