The Walker, The Watcher

Sitting and watching,
the lost art.
Disappear without a sound,
the night turns dark.

You must get up,
do something,
make the most of your time.
Be productive, get moving
build, design.
And don’t you dare take a step back,
to look at where we are heading.
In a few years you’ll be gone anyway,
no use fretting.

So just keep walking alone;
one hand in pocket, one holding a phone.
And keep strolling,
peering down, into the unknown.
In a few years you’ll be gone anyway.


the candle

I sit by candle light
restless and empty,
there’s nothing left to write
my plate is dirty,
and cicadas sing the endless drone
of fading summer.

As I sit alone
cloths scattered around,
my mind wanders, ponders the ground
I tread without a sound,
breathing fire, the candle flickers
in the breeze unbound,
and I don’t really know what I’m doing
but that’s ok right now.



Sit down try and write something
feels like trying to fight something.
Wrestle with this brain of mine
check the time and try and make a rhyme,
that means something or anything
not just words, bullshit.
Can’t see through the haze of lies,
every thought is a fraud –
abhorred ward of a madhouse.
So I sit and mull
over things so dull,
and gloomy they could bore to death, going over an over;
stuck in a way
lost and astray
do you have an ashtray, cheers.
Where was I then.