What it would be
to make her my missus?!
(Magnificent!)
It would be heaven for me!

To her every word, I would listen-
(No!) hark- and concentrate upon.

I would drop everything at once,
if only to get to witness her eyes- a- glisten.

I dream of kissing her upon our lawn.
It's a dream going on- seventy two months!

I wonder if she, to me, could be fond..

I scream up to the Creator, in plea,
"My fare maiden, I beg of you, this is-
the only thing I ask! I am, merely, a pawn
but if you could bestow that queen unto this dunce:
I would be so appreciative!"

They say I may
have a substance dependency,
I believe they're wrong, my friends!
  You see:
'P. Crowley' is simply a figment
  of my innermost imagination.
  And he writes so much more diligent
-ly when my mind is in elevation,
  puffing upon pipes.. rather high!
Why, in the hell, would I-
push halt to his inspiration?
  --
Not worrying about when he will die,
he cracks a cold beer.
Isn't it national beer day?
Cheers.
  --
Oh, how I wish the Wednesday Woes
would whisper (Not yell!) & pass.
All I wish to do, Lord only knows,
is lie motionless in the Thursday grass.

Oh!

How I wish I could silence
these demons in my head!

These demons pray on violence-
& I think they wish to see me dead!

(Oh!)
No!

Your love was a cigarette:
burning bright for me after I struck a match.
I deprived myself of air,
to enjoy every drag.
Alas, cigarettes don't last long..
& now that you are gone..
I sit here, in a clouded room:
it's what remains of us.
Toxic lungs and a foggy mind!
Oh, cigarette lover,
how I wanted to make you mine!
Though: it seems what you had for me
was lust.
In your short-lived love, I put my trust.

I've been cruising through life,

having a good time.

Smoking my herbs

& sipping red wine.

And, I think..

'I feel fine.'

     ...

But as the fog rolls in

And you're, likely, with him..

I wonder..

Am I?

January 5th, 2016.
Five in the morning.
Red eyes caused by being up since
four (am) the day prior.
He stands in Winnipeg airport
staring off at all the people.
"None of them are boring,"
his brain tells itself,
"They are all exquisite stories..
sitting upon their own personal shelves,
waiting to be opened."
Be wary, my friends. 
Many of those who would like to read you, 
will only leave you with
a cracked & creased spine. 
His trance,
broken, as a hand taps his shoulder.
His sister,
ready to board her flight.
He says,
"Travel safe, good night."
With that,
back to the parking lot..
Back to solitude. 
Back to his thoughts of you.

As the trees do sprout from the soil,
small golden hairs broke through his face.
He must become a man,
in a world so turmoil.
If there is one thing
he would ask of the human race..
it would be
if everyone could, kindly, slow their pace.
Have Some Pat-
  ience.