I Can Only Run So Far

I punish my legs on my bicycle to distract myself from my problems, but I can only ride so fast, and I have only two legs. It takes a lot of pain to ignore the feel of The Many Armed Knight's breath on the back of my neck, or the towering Harvester above me. My claws are out, but they just feel right tonight. Maybe I'll take a walk like I used to, flee into the night. That flight never helped me except to be even more alone. This moment is awful, and I think I'll have many more like it in the future. Tomorrow looms before me, and I can't stop thinking about tonight.

a child of doubt

a thousand dreams away
and thoughts are just as distant
The Lord once held me tight
but now, i sleep alone

a weird array of pictures
some real, and some imagined
i can't quite place them all
inside my scattered past

i don't know what's a dream
sometimes, I sleep too much.
so I can catch a glimpse
a little fleeting glance

of what was once so clear
so vivid, and so real
one dream is left alone
swimming in a thousand

more come every night
from what is here and now
a thousand dreams are wet
and some I hope are real

but most, i fear, are not

Ryan Cassata's Music is On My Links List, Others Are Off

I removed a couple friends' blogs because they haven't updated them in a long time. I added the myspace of a cool little dude I ran across on facebook, Ryan Cassata. I say little because he's short in stature, but he's tall on talent. Ryan has some good lyrics and some good songs, too. I like his music because it is confidently Ryan's; he's no parrot and neither needs nor uses a legion of lookalikes to be an artist. His sound is just good, honest music. If you listen, I think you'll agree.

I don't delete posts for idiocy . . .

. . . but I wish I did on this one. Allan Green lost every round.

Before the bell

Allan Green by knockout in the 8th round

words

only a few words deserve to exist; i am not one of them

Now

I hope she forgot me. I put too much into my poems to take her out: it wouldn't be fair to the rest of the words, or The Word I chase like a questing beast. I'm taking apart my first house; it wasn't very good, and argued with the character that began as a woman, and ended up a sunrise. Now, it's past sunset, and I'm alone. I'd prefer someone be near me, but not her. She stopped being a person and became a muse before I saw her last. She stopped being a muse when my imagination replaced her with the next one, the one who woke the demon inside me that now won't sleep. If she doesn't find me, I'll be glad that I won't have to explain anything: my poems can be beautiful and nothing else. I stopped looking for her a long time ago: she's a memory and a name, and that's the way it should be.