People often say to me “I wish I could write like you.”
Which to some degree I should find humbling
But if only they knew the truth
That every time I touch the pen I'm afraid of what it might do
Behind the guise of self expression it takes possession
All defenses are torn a sunder in pain under its reign
And I am helpless to stop it
Like I would, even if I could anyway
Each tear in me is subject to its tyranny
I watch every sunset fearfully
As the veil of darkness falls
So do the castle walls
It is then that the pen will begin to possess me again
Coercing confessions of sin
However, as much I hate it
I abhor I love it more
I concede that I need it
There is a stink of distinction
Between me and this ink pen
Yet still somewhat synonymous
Whatever I hide under the surface
Determines its purpose
And it always serves it
Even if it hurts when
I bleed through this pen.

Even at my age,
I see mountainous lands in the sky,
Languishing among towering clouds,
A lofty empire, lost kingdoms,
Perhaps a strange magical realm,
Thriving with dwarves and giants,
Maidens in towers awaiting rescue,
Where lone horse warriors wander,
Maybe observing us, far below.

Must be a poetic creative thing,
Or simply the child deep within,
Viewing through the eyes of the man,
Dreaming ancient days of long ago,
When the child yearned to be grown,
To know all there is to know,
Never appreciating escapism,
The chance to drift within time,
Ponder upon distant, aerial, worlds.

Or maybe I’m just a dreamer,
That and nothing more, hmm,
Telling myself, I am a poet,
A procrastinating creative spirit,
In love with the trappings of art,
The child asleep within wisdom,
Languishing among towering clouds,
I see mountainous lands in the sky,
Even at my age.

©Paul M Chafer 2015

I find the quiet scratch of pen on paper to be soothing.
My thoughts flow more easily from my pen than they do my mouth.
It is impossible to articulate emotions into words.
How can you describe the indescribable?
There is a need there, a desperate hunger.
Not to keep you in my life, but to make you happy.

Whatever the cost.

You are one ment for greatness.
People like you need the chance to change the world.

And you will.

Of this there is no doubt in my mind.
People like you give people like me someone to look up to.
A standard for which I am constantly striving.

And maybe one day we will sit down across from each other and smile.
For we will both have accomplished so much.

Maybe one day you can be happy again.
Maybe one day I will stop hurting.

Why not today?

Why not now?

The future is terrifying and it is most certainly not set.
But one day at a time, we can handle it.
We can only live in the moment we have right now.

Let's love it.

Cherish it.

And make it the greatest moment of our lives.

Then maybe one day,

We can be whole again.

His dog chased her
through the woods.
The rifle can **** from
three-hundred yards.

Watch her leap logs
and sidestep
sticks grabbing
at her shoulders.

There are three Gods
in the woods,
behind any tree.

No one is as ruled
as the lawless.
No one is as sedated
as the frenzied.

Sympathy couldn't be
measured in screams,
but measured
in her breaths.

Beyond the
honeydew horizon,
the senseless cease.
The half-life of eyes:
her only escape.

Where the tree-trunks
are furnished by the
candied corpses.
Her feet chomp at the
prostituted ground.

She will die, here,
whether she lives
or not.
For what is stolen,
stays.

I feel messed up, fixing on sun walks and fun talks.
A run with you, warm and without shoes
through all the hues of existence.

It's interest, you impressing thing.
I could sing about your eyes,
and die from how you smile
I'm not in denial, but I might as well say it.
I think I may love you..

I know that I know more than I used to know,
back when I didn't know  as much as I know now,
but even though I know that,
deep down I still know,
that I don't know anything.

I'm standing on the icy head of a barge, all rusted to ****. P.J. (the lead deckhand) and I wait patiently with frozen line tearing at our shoulders. We're far away from the buzzy, groaning engines of the Mary C tug, and all I hear is the water being pushed out of our way.
        "What direction is that?"
         "Up river?"
         "Yessir".
          They call rope line. To me it's always been rope and I don't care to call it something else. But they've made it clear, "it is and will always be referred to as line". It'd be nice if terminology was the only thing that ruffled these country boys feathers. Who knew they'd be so strict?  And do I really need a question mark if it's rhetorical?
         I'm on a boat. It's 6:30 a.m., or as they say back home "early as ****". Sun's poking through the trees and it makes that gentle floating snow a bit more detailed. I stick nervously to the rim, but only because I'm new. It isn't worth pretending to be comfortable, at least not on that thing. Besides, falling in the water is basically equivalent to dying here. The safety videos stressed that. Although, they also swore that a crew will alert you to "watch the bump!" whenever hitting up against something. That's not a real thing though. A lot of the **** we watched isn't real. I'm indifferent. After all, I didn't chase a boat to feel comfortable.
          In my heavy-hearted moments, pessimism takes a whack at everything I put faith in. I reject myself and challenge every step that lead me to unhappiness. Big, big questions toss and turn inside my head, and they try to convince me to run home.  It happens.  
           But I'm happy right now, just seeing the sunrise and being surrounded by all these strange factories puffing out clouds.  It's probably all bad, toxic stuff.  Sometimes it's not worth digging into negative realities. For now, they're factories that make clouds for us to enjoy.  P.J. and I both lit up a cigarette and he asked me why I was smiling.  
           "This is a pretty cool job. I mean, what a way to wake up".
He spit casually off the side, down into the water.
            "You aint lyin".