When night falls, good men fall with it.
With the Lord’s angels by their side, they sleep.
Full of hope, full of life.
But with that same nightfall,
Some men go to war forsaken by God.
And tonight I, the poet,
I ride with those men into battle.
“Good” men, but worse, darkened souls.
And what’s a man but his soul?
The enemy? Well, every “good” man’s enemy
Is his soul, his very own soul.
And the strategy? Every man for himself.
Tonight I ride nightfall with nothing.
A thick darkness swallows my already dark soul.
But I see him, clad in exquisite cotton
Like the “good” in which he rests at sunrise.
The “good” man everyone sees.
But men don’t see souls. Men don’t see truth.
So today I march against nightfall
Armed with nothing but hope
And the man I want to be can only surface
If I win this war against night itself.
Restless, and in the dark.
But it was high time the hypocrisy stopped.
That; That was not the best version of me.
And there is a woman, A beautiful woman.
-Battling toxic addictions-
-battling toxic addictions-
I need a place to burry my dirt
But would you stay if maybe,
If maybe I buried it within your heart?
I’m the kind of man that keeps falling
Collecting scars invisible to the eye.
Yet my heart’s still longing and calling.
I’ve done things in the absence of light
Created permanent silhouettes in my soul
So would you stay if my star wasn’t as bright?
Would you stay if I told you my darkest nights?
failed you, failed myself
regret and a tiny glimmer of hope.
-battling toxic addictions-
I love old cars
the smell of raw fuel
when you finally hit the gas.
I love the long silent walks
down the far country side
where natures aura blossoms.
And I love the sun
a dying light at dusk
the hope of a new day at dawn.
But you know what I really love the most?
the sensation of touch
a different kind of connection
one from another dimension
my kind of love; All or Nothing.
each and everything or nothing at all.
vulnerable and needy
so needy it becomes a curse
one whose price it hurts to pay
but in the end
I really, really love old cars
that smell of raw fuel
when you finally step on the gas.
when tears dont flow
and the heart feels no more;
Things only the broken know.
It’s always the eyes, always has been.
They write the first few lines of this poem,
And the first few lines of any good story.
Its been written by our ancestors that moments before you die,
Your whole life flashes right before your eyes.
But the ancestors were wrong, for our life stories are written right within our eyes.
It was right there all along, always has been.
Solomon, for Gigi
And the poet stopped.
Took a deep breath and with a a sigh
Started all over again.
Only this time, he lived one day at a time.
Loose from all human attachment.
Loose from all the pain, all the tears
A choice not by desire but necessity.
And on each day he only looked ahead,
Miles away into the fog where a bright light made statement.
The poet looked only at the mysterious lighthouse.