I tell you all my stories
And you inhale them,
Eager and entertained and hungry for more.
You build a little picture of me in your mind,
Your brilliant, beautiful mind,
And you love them because you love me.
But the best thing of all
Is that you are in the picture now,
And you are one of my stories;
A dream that came true.

Feast on my words
for I am the dead poet.
Ink to the paper
the past is my moment.

Written down to the second,
the minutes might say.
History's forgotten
the battles will rage.

Sentenced for crimes,
my expressions are free.
Lock me up in the cell,
nothing taken from me.

The thoughts in my head
will always remain.
Touched by the emotions,
the abuse and some pain.

Pent up with the silence,
speak up with the truth.
Explode with your pen,
no moment is mute.

Now I lay in the ground,
dead as the others.
Remember my words,
fellow poets,  my brothers.

Sitting in a pool of ****,
other peoples ****,
**** all over me,
I am nothing,
just an object,
a still life subject
art school joke,
I'm a mess,
a **** stain,
a fugitive on the run,
running away from life.

If I held out my hand
would you take it ?
it's warmth ready to permeate your soul
but what would it tell you of me ?
the scar on my finger
the wrinkling skin
the crooked pinkie
the gnarl on my thumb
stories to be told
if you would only take hold.

The cutter will cut in a cutters world,
the hurt won't stop in a life unfurled,
the blood will drip like drops of rain
eaten alive by sorrow and pain
you will feast on smiles and greed
but Ill just cut and watch it bleed

Youth is fading.
Like a flickering candle, manipulated by the breeze of summers lick.
Inside the self not long ago.

Ageing was unthinkable,undrinkable.

Today,

Stiff joints,
muscles buzz,
stretched in wretched torment.
Knees red as blazing rugby *****.

Broken hips as crushed up glass, cheap market glass.

My greatest wish would be.

To wrestle with the beast of age,
Half Nelson?
Smash it neatly out of the way.

A role reversal of all powerful father time.

Oh well,
We can dream.
At least I can still drink it up.
Use of the pleasure.
This sweet thing called life.
(C) Livvi