How sad yer poem makes me, but believe, sorrow is the only reality I can contend with.

Sleepwalkers, smooth-talkers
Understanding vulnerability
Can manipulate sincerity

Everyone has dreams

Daydreamers, night screamers
Escaping from life's tragedies
But only finding love's inanities

Nothing's what it seems

Select all delete
A ghost is all that's left of me
For skeletons walk aimlessly

Poetry has Dreams

No more...


I speak in corny riddles that your message right here is a bright eye for a bright mind. Feelings, be it elation, be it sorrow, need to be trapped in nifty booby-traps of the cardio.

Their skins are slippery and we can't grasp'em.

And believe that I understand one could only say "We're doomed" and crash in his bed, but you've explained the whys, ifs and buts.


A Sketchy moment from yours truly...


_Are we doomed teach?

_Yes, we are, kiddo.

_But would you tell me how and why?

A poet has just answered.

_Bloody Hell!

And Scene

Aye take care Sorrowful One,

Pollyanna