Week Night Wine Drunk

The stories are written in in the wee hours By the moon and the setting sun By candle light and fire side And by rivers as they run  Inspired by the cracks in mountains In rocks and in the stone Words whisper in the breeze That blows through out my home  By the soft gentle breath  Of my son as he sleeps And on the tears shed by  Broken hearted woman who weeps They come in the most unusual way To enter heads at end of day When sleep has all but taken mind On edge of reality a

It's hard to face the forgotten words The brilliance lost forever Knowing that the story told  Is gone and it never Had the chance to be enjoyed And created and to find A place inside the head And played out in the mind Words rip through foggy brain Skipping across the sky Touch the edge of imagination Seen only in minds eye A rhyme, a poem, a tale untold  A story true and grand Not written lost in fleeting thought Not captured by the hand They say the pen is mightier Than th

He is all of my material  He's everything to me And when I think I'm past it He comes right back to me He whispers on the wind  In the rain and in the sun The clouds speak his name He's the one, he's the one But he is not though is he Because we are apart Does he feel the same  The same as my beating heart When a smile or a kind word Brings it all flooding back  But your with someone else While we have a chat  But who am I to compare Who am I to complain When I am sitting her

Stay between the lines  Between his gnashing teeth  The mouth that dictates time spent And where I walk my feet Stay inside the box he built  Stay quiet and sit still Look pretty, but not to much  Lest another wants his fill Apparently that's my fault  As if I could decide How a man will feel about me The lust I will provide Stay between his finger tips  And never ask for more He’ll give you everything you need Of that you can be sure Everything he thinks you want But nothing

I used to ride past a house almost every afternoon (when cycling was my workout of choice) The front door was always open and they had the biggest book shelf jam packed with books from floor to ceiling. There is a house, upon a hill With books up past the window sill With far too many on every shelf An unknown world unto itself Dusty books with yellowed page Spines that crack and creak with age Books of heroes, of love, of war A secret key to a secret door Their pages hold a

You're introspective and different  He said with a jest  And leaving things unsaid Is most probably best But when the things unsaid Weigh heavy on my chest Introspective and different  Becomes hard to digest

It's murky and it's cold here It's dark and scary too  Choppy water fills my lungs My grave is salty blue Treading water just to stay afloat To keep myself from certain death  I can't help but sink further still With heavy laboured breath I'm lost and failing every second  To keep my head above The ocean has become me now Im drowning in lack of love