I use a dirty coffee cup to hold my toothbrush.

Unending thoughts. Part 1 of 5 (crap. That's a lot of parts for one poem)


Does happiness help us to hold onto the trivial things?
Or does it come with the territory?
When we start to slip into the abandon of depression,
why do more things start to seem so trivial;
So easy to let go of?

Paranoia has crossed the line.
It has played it the realm of the real.
How can it ever be separated again?
Were things as they seemed, or as they were
And I just didn't see them?
What can I trust now?

Where is substance?

Hold close, children, and smile.
Smile to the abyss.
Such is our way.
What more do we have,
Than to dance as the precipice looms?
Dance on that sad edge of love's demise,
And bittersweet; our footsteps muffling the tune of a dirge
In the loose soil.


Bone grey the sky;
The world shrouded in the absence of color.
A deathly reminder of when the angel of the morning roamed the Earth.
Was it the color of dead clay that drove him into madness?
When the one color is none? And the world turns to
Burned ash...Charred bone
Breath suspends
And even the birds do not dare to sing?
And a quiet man, alone in the woods,
Waits to see if the Earth will renew herself...

And she does. The Sun comes. The air chills.
The birds startle.
The world takes a breath, and draws in color.
And that void of color fades into fading
And the Angel of the morning slips back into madness
madness, in the recesses of the Man's mind.

And a communion they cannot share,
sits, untouched, on a mossy stone.
refreshed only for a fleet moment
Bone grey Earthenware
filled with unknowable things...