Because
it's invisible
it is indestructible -

because
it's metaphorical
it blunts the literal-

because
it's beyond words
it is indescribable -

because
it's boundless
it is immeasurable -

because
it's seamless
it's unstoppable -

because
love is mysterious
poets find it undefinable

Hijacked
Irrational thinking
Heaven forbid
Kinder gestures
Sweet amazing grace
The uninvited guests
I surrendered too
This bloodsport has
Spilled enough blood
Taken enough prisoners
Evading
The trenches
Collapsed doom and gloom
No more harvest moon
Having it’s way
Time to rewrite my story
Alleviate the anxiety
Soften the blows
Make the lyrics
Speak quieter
Soak up my soul in sanity
Soil me in effervescent sunshine
Unpolished I have been
I don’t shine like gold
Few truly do
All the chitter chatter
Has gone to my head
In the smallest of increments
It doesn’t necessarily obliterate
Me to the core
Simple known truth
Behold the changing of thee guard
Maybe finally in progress

"His nostalgic memories glorified them .."
Nostalgia is an enemy dressed as a friend—
An old friend with nothing but love to give,
When all it does is take;
Take our present with nothings of past.
A foe cosplaying amity,
A warm wind hiding its coldness
Until it touches your skin—
Softly like always.
Like it's protecting you while destroying your silently
It hugs you giving away it's warmth
Before strangling you, making you feel like a corpse;
Cold and wrinkled.

I’ve got 61 volumes, with over a thousand files
Some full of crying, some full of smiles
I’ve got volumes of love, volumes of life
There’s a lot about me, a bunch about my wife

I have a few funny ones, you know I’m a cynic
I’ve got rants about the world, everybody’s in it
I go on and on about people, all different kinds
When I post online, we poets share our minds

I’m always writing, since about 1975
It keeps me humble; it keeps me alive
Sometimes my writing is off the top of my head
I’ll be writing poems, at least until I’m dead

Living life
in passion?
I'll go further-
to live with defiance !

God answers the prayers
I don’t remember praying.
My prayers are just stepping
stones to a better reality.
If I die this year I’d feel that
way about my last prayer.
My bitterness will stop injecting
itself into my fantasies.
My butterflies grow obese
because of the magic.
I’ll keep trying to grow
past all of this tragic.
I’ll stop living everyday as if
it’s  already the future.
It makes my Time Machine
into a ready guillotine.
My depression and happiness
hug for the first time.
They have not been intimate
long enough it seems.