a series of ??? (without the brass and chrome).

Maybe my last "poem". I love writing but I find I am more often than not writing prose poems anymore and they work better when they are pretending to be novels.

Following the river of another thought spiral...

The truth is that I haven't been well in a long while.

As my fascination with the past is the illusion of a life without endings.

So now I go there to pray, while there is a condescending voice.

My stories are a commentary on cliches.

But Anna lou gave a s**t, and now she is dead.

It's calm of the night and absence of a hope that is external.

A series of ??? cut me down to the heart of pain.

I am not in heaven, and I am afraid to be dead.

Is it a poem if it reads like a blog post?

We are organized to the music of ideas, not the rhythm of rhyme.

The effect is a justification...

But even then, it could use some brass and chrome to let the world know what it is missing.

He made his name on nightmares...

Author's Note

all constructive critisim is welcome.