These Screams

Are these screams from inside my mind?

Or out there?

Is it the theif?

The scent of ravaged swine in the air?



It conflicts though my tongue remains straight.

In this cursed world.

The truth they hate.


Their aim, the unblossomed an it's dark.

Sanity has boarded.

I cannot watch it debark.



The dark souls lurk. 

I hear what they dont say.

So much evil.There must be a God to whom to pray.



The rivers are lost, hills cry with are failure to fight.

Who am I?

If I cant write.

The Introverted Man

He likes the lights low lit, his style low key
His thinking is complicated, wise as the mystical oak tree.

In the sounds of silence my stillness is bold
He knows energy, see's vibes
I stare at my tea untill it turns cold.

Should you ever outshine the master?
Like the eagle from the mountains revered for his pastor.

Moving in the symphony notes of life,
searching words with his pen, like a woodsman with his knife.

'It's ok' He said, the time I need to recharge in silence.
There's a hustle in my mind.
I see desire, I hear the chug of red wine.

She thought I did not love her, I'm loyal to the core
Doing nothing alone is doing, I love her all the more.



https://masternobody.com/

a desert turn green

I saw a desert turn green.
But no letters today, and the phone rang out.
I picked up a pen so I did not scream.
I made it rhyme, so I would not shout.

I looked out the window in the night,
as she left me in a dream.
I could see things clear from the moonlight
I saw a desert turn green.

The Bullet

I dont know what you want. Friends waste my time anyway.

Someday I'll be gone.
My words though, will carry on.

I write, as I find it hard to say.

              

I cant explain where my interests are born, but I need them like the night.

I'm blessed in the eyes of danger.
Though I struggle with a stranger.

Interaction still my hardest fight.



I often feel more than I'm supposed to.

In my eyes the lights are more than blinding.
My mind, it's still finding.

The noises, don't stop where yours do.



Piercing pains in my head,I refuse to go insane.

I reach out to the holiness.
Where solitude meets the loneliness.

The bullet, will not travel through my brain.

In my craft or sullen art

By Dylan Thomas

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.

Princes at War

A prince, but never to be a pauper.
Sold the family crown, and headed, California.

Our dear King Charlie had praised the fab four.
Now two princes gone to war.

The Queen is turning in her grave, surely Dianna in dismay.
The dog bowl prince, too much to say.

Can peace talks ever begin? Princes at war.
Or another broken necklace, and one more slap to the jaw.