Feet reclined near water's edge,
the warmth of the Sun,
coolness of the breeze,
Hmm...a little yellow flower.

Standing all alone,
so small,
so proud,
so beautiful.

For a moment I'm reminded of you,
I shall pluck it for your enjoyment!
But wait- maybe instead,
I should leave it alone.

Yes, I'll leave it where it be,
so I can return each day,
and have a pleasant reminder of you.

Perhaps I'll write about it,
maybe in a letter,
and send it to you,
immortalizing its brilliance,
the little yellow flower.

There's a little
boy that hides in
the dark corners of
my soul.
He doesn't want to
be hurt anymore.
I spent eight years
with Beth.
For the most part,
it was hell and
constant pain.
She made nightmares
look good.
I heard the
little boy cry
late into the
silky night,
while snails got
smashed on the streets
of Ventura.

When I drank, which was often,
the little boy seemed
at peace for awhile,
while swans were
murdered in Venice,
and I tasted the ashes
of Neruda.
Years flew by
like seagulls;
up
down
and darting.
The little boy
continued to
hide in the
dark corners of my soul.

He wanted to
come out and be loved.
He was thirsty for it,
but there wasn't
any around.
It was dry, like the
deserts in hell.
It's too late for
sorries here comes
the plow.

He began to see
the pattern of life.
Some monsters walk in the light.
Vulnerability equals pain.
The little boy got mean.
And now he carries
a knife.