poetry to prose

As dreams fall on to my weary eyes

Before closed mind for the day at 9:33pm

Restoring what tolerance and patience is left teetering on the precipice

A battle wages on inside my soul spirit

Behind the laughing and pretend stupidity for others to giggle and chuckle with others

A book half way closed

Lines without periods in a sentence

Unstrung together loosely coming to me in times of contemplation

The revolutionary rebel resistant to what around says to be

The air is thick here in Alabama with yes sir’s and yes ma’am’s

Redundant politeness of a fighting to be as a child perceives

The meaning of worth as exhausting as lifting 200lb clams out of the sea

Pushing cars up hill

The Buddha with live and let lives

He does not say a word except that of being left alone with the birds and the trees

Silent peace unheard in days

The counting never stops

By seconds and smaller

Frame by frame waiting starts and never ceases

This battle wages with one constant the wrestles with the men and eases their rage to a standstill

Poetry to prose as a bullet is to a gun

The only one weapon a word can tell the story for men to know what it means to be such

The mad poet unsilenced by money

The will to be…unchanged upon the peddler of things to those who seek it out with golden pocket watches and no value on their riches

The battle wages and wages around a fire the story teller lyrics his way through the blood and guts only as a mad poet can