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The following journaled and unjournaled works consist of 55 sonnets and 9 freeformed/untilted works written around 1996-2000.

Journaled Works (46)

December 25, 1996

A day of giving, a day of joy.
A day worth living that I much enjoy.
Dearest Christmas, bring us New Year.
With your white snow and bells of cheer.

Though such an elaborate day can be ruined quickly,
By people acting dull and sickly.
But all moods are changed when presents are passed out-
And the happiness makes you want to scream and shout.

January 1997

You were my friend but many days have changed that.
What have you given me but the filth of a rat?
I have cried many days knowing that you weren't worth the tears.
I have questioned your evil ways finding that you have many fears.
I wish to never see you again-nor to ever feel your presence.
For, the end of our friendship has begun,
Because your mind has no sense.

Farewell to the days we were together,
They were never meant to be.

January 1997

Is it the sun that shines upon my skin that makes me want to be alive?
Is it the fruit I eat that makes me thrive?
Woe am I to think I am on this earth for nothing.
But the fear of death will always give me a reason.
My darkest of feelings have yet to come.
“It is still human tragedy to be convicted of treason!”
the cool of the winter and the heat of the summer-
They show themselves to have reason to live
And they will live for eternity.
But I have little reason to live in such darkness.
I am indefinitely human.

January 1997

The fools of this fruitful planet-
Their words dim on me.
Thos that destroy it and damn it
Are full of disgust and envy.
You do not love your creator?
So you choose to resolve your feelings later?!
How can you kill the Priceless and what they give to you?
How can you start the day anew?

One day, when the last tree is standing,
When the last animal is alive,
When the last grain of dirt is burned over by the sun,
Will you use them as you have done before?
Or will you spare them-dieing in your appreciation?
They have more meaning to live,
More meaning to see the sun the last time!
Evermore-to give you your life.

January-February 1997

Life is misery and decay,
Like the grass is worn in the month of May.
Fingertips worked to a nub,
Living still to feel a slight rub.
Days will come for me to work to prepare,
To serve those who do not care.
Oh, the frustration I feel when people I love are drunken,
To feel for them when feelings are sunken.
Priceless is the day when it all ends,
When all the distraction ends.
For I will know then all I have achieved,
And both Black and White are weaved.

February 1997

“Oh, wicked wits have power to seduce!”
As brother and his lies reproduce.
It is he who speaks with cleft-tongue,
Laughing at all the harm he has done.
I am not the truss that supports you.
I am the good that eliminates you.
I do not fear your lies,
And I will laugh when your ego dies.
You are a human of somber hue.
Stupidity is the job that you do.
Justice is soon to come-
And not with the beating of a drum.

“Deadened Joie De Vivre”
March 1997

Is it as simple as a day goes by?
Does it end with a grunted sigh?
The felicity may last but seconds,
Until others begin their demands and beckons.
For life, uniformity does not begin a new day,
But a brightened hue of thought may have much to say.
Somber I have spent many of my days,
Fixing an unfixable maze.
Pale are the dreams that were to be,
Of a deadened joie de vivre.

Where has my life gone?
But to a place where I have never expected to be.
Is it for seeing the break of dawn-
To get down on one knee?
Is it for hearing adverse words-
That don't want me to be?
Is it for feeling the pain of a scar
That I will forever see?
Is it for tasting bitter, and sweet,
That quench me with glee?
Pale are the dreams that were to be,
Of a deadened joie de vivre.

When will the sun come and shine for all man to see?
Show everyone what's your worth!
Never let a shadow be seen.
Everyone will bow and redeem.
Pale are the dreams that were meant to be,
Of a deadened joie de vivre.

March 1997

What is hiding behind that mask?
Is it stupidity that limits your task?
Is it madness for ones live?
Is it terror that you think of?
Your silence makes me curious,
For I have never seen the thin line that divides us.
You are difficult to understand,
In your short words that seem never to demand.
You straggle when you walk
And it's a struggle to get you to talk.
You act as though you are insane.
“Are you ignorant” people may proclaim.
You act as if every day is a blistering hell,
So you protect yourself in your shell-
When it comes to being you…
Are you me?

March 1997

In all simplicity,
What makes you hate me?
Yes, In all minds there is complexity,
But, pray, please tell me!
Lo, when I look in the mirror I see my soul.
A soul of sadness does dwell.
An inner conscience as black as coal.
But who are you to tell?
Carved in mind,
As I walk by you I smell the stench of ignorance.
Much to find,
I hear loudly your uppity arrogance.
Though you say nothing,
I can see through your eyes.
It's bitter words your tongue isn't sucking,
So let them be silent or they will plot your demise!

Beginning of  “Sonnets”

March 1997

O! Sing that beautiful song again!
The thrills of shock run through me!
It's the motion that cures the pain
And gives life-like the greens of a dead tree.
Fast away, make the flute trill,
And make me acknowledge the grand pith.
Never will this music kill,
So I will always remember the myth!
Make me for get my black thoughts
And hit me with your invisible fist.
Untie all my internal knots
And do not so much as my miserable life list.
But no “song” is good enough to last forever:
So why make it my idle when pulling on its lever?

March 1997

Must I live to see the end?
Or was the end ever meant to see?
Is there a hand that will lend-
That will help me through this time to be?
I wish to die when I am asleep.
To know I have lived a full day of life.
But not to die dreaming deep,
But if so, I should have died by knife!
Should we all die at once
To give purpose to the “end.”
Or should all die who are dunce;
For us to be happy not to depend?
I beg you, for me, never mourn-
I was never meant to be born!

March 1997
I shall be telling this in tears
Lest to live.
To die are not my fears-
But my face to give.
Why am I going to be grown?
I want to be as I prefer.
Limbs are growing as I moan
As I am changed by human nature.
O, let me die today!
So I can rest in my grave.
May I see the ultimate price to pay.
But by leaving should every heart be brave?
There are people-but no one cares.
There are questions-but where are dares?

March 1997

It is rare for me to write of someone's beauty-
But, for no-other goddess, lies in me this duty!

Her skin is of an unblemished tan,
And her legs and arms are worked to give her grace.
Her power gives me proof that I can,
But she is weedy, and shows little expression on her face.
She is damned to be sullen and coy,
But still, I think she is indifferent-
Her feelings are not to toy,
Because her days are not well spent.
You are candid, promising and of meaning!
And as beautiful as a honeysuckle's scent.
You are as fair as the lightning's warning.
And I, while blinded, see you just as thunderously radiant.
No one will ever see you as I do-
Their eyes, unblinded, can never smell you.

April 1997

Presently, spring is my muse,
Forbidden not are its mystic showers.
The swaying lilies for the smell I use,
And for its gallant hues and hypnotic powers.
The sun and moon may have to strife,
To look upon springs nurturing beauty.
Each day seemed longer in life,
To support the greenery's duty.
Winds are shaking winter-worn limbs away
And the sun begins to dry the fertile soil.
Warmth is growing day-by-day
To keep summer's promise pomp and loyal.
Springs essence may last but a while,
Nevertheless, its stay stretches my smile.

April 1997

Young plant of heavenly source,
May the bird not pluck at you,
May the summer not change its course.
May the rain not make you blue!
You bend as every raindrop falls on you,
For it envies the air you have contrived.
For every breath you make a new,
And, still, you have survived!
You have been used,
Don't let them deceive.
You have been abused,
Even if my word you believe.
What is the worth of living
When others neglect what you are giving?

April 1997

His mind is his foe,
Who he battles in the strife.
It is not his words that he may sow
But if so, the bell shall end his life.
He lies he is rich,
For I have seen in his eyes.
You are a beggar! Go lie in a ditch!
You should know your breath isn't wise.
In hope you will overcome your boastful state,
Then, for you, I have devised a conscience.
No longer will your truth be eternally late-
Thank me later for my recompense.
Is it good to give to a liar?
Or would giving light his evil fire?

April 1997
I am sought in black-
Invisible to the patient eye.
Cold hands pull on my back
And leave me on the floor to die.
I begin to rise-
Leaving my mortal self lay.
No more are the burden of lies
That whip us day through day.
I pursue to a land in which to fast;
Knowing I have done only right.
But, still, I am awoken to fit in a cast,
Back into a world that tares might.
I am sought in black,
Running from the axes that sever-open my back.

April 1997

At first you were shy
And condemned to your own thought.
Should I have left a sleeping dog lie?
Yes! I should have let you rot!
I listened to what you wanted to say
And did what you wanted to do.
You held me accountable to all your pay-
Did any of my deeds give you a clue?!
Forgive me lord for all my hatred:
I have always wanted a friend.
Young thoughts do flow whilst lying on my bed
Wishing for someone to have my heart to mend.
My friendship to you
Never came true.

April 1997

Slowly the wind is blowing,
Waving my hair with its drift.
In the distance a stream is flowing,
Reflecting the moon as a gift.
The stars twinkle lighting the night,
Giving me a peek of its dew.
Strange shadows remain in sight-
Moving with each breeze on cue.
I'm sorry I breathe.
I'm sorry I am alive.
I'm sorry I grieve.
Wipe away my tears; I must survive.
This is where I go,
To let my feelings flow.

April 1997

You, arise, bring forth your words!
You, arise, bring forth your creed!
You, arise, cry as the birds!
You, arise, summon your needs!
You, preach what you are taught!
You, preach! My mind you arrest!
You, teach what you thought!
You, teach, I give you my interest!
Today I give you this rhyme
To give you your pride.
I warn you now there is little time;
No longer will your feelings hide.
I gave to you a pride I have never had.
If you cannot speak-out your thoughts-you may go mad!

April 1997

It follows me though I lie in my bed
And it watches me as I cry.
It mourns for me as if I were dead
And It burdens me when I lie.
It changes the merry to fearful,
And turns the wise to a fool.
It is not this spirit who is cheerful,
Rather, the one who he wants to duel.
It lurks in the shadows during the night
And makes its niche in my mind.
It's fear, oh, fear tonight to fight!
So leave! There is fear for you to find.
The fear of fearing may be hard to face,
But neglecting it will always slacken its pace.

April 1997

Questions I have made to a listening ear,
To be hastily answered and given no thought.
But strongly the meed of someone's words are now to fear,
Somehow rebelling against what was ought.
Oh, help me! I am judged by unruly imps.
From that I have no words to say in offence.
My bottled esteem leaves me with limps-
Further down I go, and depression thence.
Indeed my words never improvise,
For it would only be me at fault.
I mind the need to reprove all lies.
But, abruptly, what I say is only put to halt.
Be pleased most pleasant thought-
Give me pleasure for what was not!

April 1997

So go the days of an honest wretch
Whose dignity has been hacked in twain.
The past is gone and never to fetch.
In his body there is no breath to gain.
His exuberance once filled the earth
But his real feelings were left unknown.
It seemed he was taunted evenly at birth-
He was even jeered at in his moan.
Still moons discover the colorful break-of-day
And I have forgotten most of his ways.
But I know I was his only friend to say:
“Alas, poor being, you have lived your days!”
I speak of someone whose days had been harassed.
Am I better to live and sorrow be surpassed?

May 1997

No one can scribe what my back yard is,
Nor can they sense its love at pace.
The green grass sits with the trees with this,
As they are swung with the same breezes that hit may face.
The morning sun dries the dew,
As the birds sing and flirt.
The smell of flowers gives the day its “new,”
Assuring safety from any hurt.
This is my place where no on goes but me.
The only place where warmth surrounds my heart.
This is my exeunt from where my troubles be,
The only place where back yards are art.
No one can understand what this place means to me.
Fortunately, no one can kill in me this memory.

May 1997

My skin, my blood, my days,
Will perish with my thought.
Glimpsing the last of my ways,
Forgetting what I was taught.
My life is as petals disperse:
Falling further with each shake.
The days I have died in rehearse
And guessing, without me, who
Death is the fire on a candle.
Death is the length of a knife.
Death is what I can't handle.
Death, oh for the fear of, life!
In each of my steps death is a scene
Certainly, by what is written, you know what I mean.

May 1997

So happy and so clean
The raindrops of spring do fall.
The Sun shines on this beautiful scene,
As the cardinal makes its call.
The Sun is giving me a piece of its golden ray-
Still shining on my virgin skin.
And the Clouds begin to say:
“If this is a battle, I will win!”
So the cloud over takes the Sun,
Crying, in defeat, over this celestial might.
So happy this day had begun
Until Wind blew on the forgotten fight.
Spring is bountiful in its supply
But this proves every good had its vie.

May 1997

She is each step I have gained
And each breath in my life.
She is the quarrel that is to be chained
And the moral in a strife.
She is the sickness in love
And the picture of fire.
She is my halo above
And the swet I perspire.
She is the blood I have bled
And the happiness in my deeds
She is whom I have never fled
And the allowance of my needs.
It is my mother of whom I speak.
She is always right and better than meek.

May 1997

Oh, I think as I write with this ink,
By chance could she love me?
If not, such ego would sink
That it would be unbearable to see.
By nature I dream of her embrace,
And sometimes even her smell.
From each moment I glance at her face,
My love I wish to confess and tell.
It would save her embarrassment not to speak
And also save her time as well.
Oh her drama leaves me weak
And, yet, her love I would never sell.
Some say she is as shy as me.
If that is true-where is her key?

May 1997
Be friends you have said,
But what are friends?
Is it a passion that stays dead
And makes it easy to sew torn mends?
I ponder this question without haste
But fast enough to know its deed.
I handle this word with bitter taste
But nice enough for it to feed.
I am so afraid that this word could kill
And I fear of what it could mean.
But our love's oddness gives me a chill
That only friendship can be seen.
Your friend has talked to me for you-
Please tell me what being your friend cold do.

So coy we are a couple,
For we have never spoken.

May 1997

So young I am for this infatuation
That foolishness can't seem to find.
Love cannot over come in such situation,
Thus, frustration has filled my mind.
Oh, that only I could love,
Setting at my side its entire defect.
That at least it would shadow me above,
Hoping me well I may suspect.
I never thought this “fever” would come,
Nor have I thought it would come to me.
I have wondered why it happens to some,
But could theirs be truer to be?
Damned is my mind I have misplaced-
And cursed it rightfully, without being disgraced.

June 1997

No lives I have inspired,
No dream to follow,
This sadness leaves me tired.
The sickness makes me wallow.
What is the penalty for working so hard?
That it may be this?
Pitied and treated as lard
And destined to not have but a kiss.
In my mind I have been segregated
And told to be a curiosity in a show.
I feel that my actions have been regulated,
Just to limit what I know.
Will my kindness ever get an award?
Ay, I deserve what I can afford.

June 1997

Here this day I be,
Suffering from all the sorrow.
Whereupon a bed, and a bent knee,
Writing words I did not borrow.
Hoping the future, that it may prove,
That it is probable to change.
From this lament I will move
Far away from this life of strange.
Could my crust change to perfection?
Could my core be no more cursed?
Could all my differences lead to this direction?
Could I ever be first?
My fate lies into this question I shame.
But who has my fate that I my blame?

June 1997

It came upon any from September to June,
The day of my true abash.
The cause I say now ere soon
Were as my mind tends to ash.
Be chargrin as it may,
That love is the genuine source.
I wished it happened another day:
For I begged the heavens for that force!
That another's lips dazed my cheek
And made my hide blush.
To say this even leaves me weak-
That I never recover in a rush.
Count this the first-wrong I be.
This one has mortified me!

June 1997

Is there any good in a boast,
For any word we waist our time?
In any bluster I hate the host,
So much to commit a crime!
He who dares to flaunt in vain,
Never will he stand by me!
The clouds above you do rain
And they will wet me in your proximity.
It is best that you do not prate
And it is wise for you to heed.
Bid me not a second late
If you understand this deed.
Friends I have boast only delight
Because delight is always right!

June 1997

The sums of lies that be brought,
That egos die with no avail.
A love's need to be sought,
Only to have hate prevail.
There is no deed in such a lie
That is accounts may cause woe.
I bade the hope of falsity would die,
To only have the crier my foe.
But in this there is no dejection
For I have fought all its pain.
But how evil a lies rejection
Counts on how much you let it gain.
Never let the sadness of a lie
To attain and start a vie.

June 1997

Is there any hope I give
To this world of unjust?
A minority is how I live
But in state I still must.
If you are hurt a single time
I am hurt three-fold.
If they consider your looks sublime
Then ugly is what I am told.
Is there any hope to receive
From this world of no benefit?
Is there any thought to conceive-
A thought that happiness could fit?
So if we all cannot call alas,
Then sadness will not pass.

June 1997

Tell me all your will's desire
And I will make them true.
I will have not a hint of tire
To fulfill your wishes due.
Show me all your somber times
And I shall make them amend:
To blithe and joyous rhymes
That will gratify you without end.
Give me all your admiration
And I will admire you greater!
I shall pay your expectation
Before time ends this time later.
One who fathoms this verse to late
I may forgive him a bit to sate.

June 1997

It is known that Time does kill,
Leaving us all owed into its gale:
To say we are murdered at its will
And hissed at in our wail.
Time does tend to care our pain
And heal our entire ailment.
But with every cloud there comes rain,
And time's lightning may cause impalement.
Is it only best that we survive
And let Time cause our death?
Or is it best that we revive
And forget time until our last breath?
Until Time stops it will send
A slow life with a fast end.

June 1997

At the darkest of my days,
May they not pursue,
The question of living my ways,
To the answer I will rue.
Solo I am and to my regret.
Alone is my destiny-so I mourn.
With every written sonnet,
I show how my hart is torn.
But In my chaste, which my be my fate,
Is a goddness only so pure:
That I may be welcome at heaven's gate
 And death will be my life's cure.
In life we are all slaves-
That we would all do better in our graves.

June 1997

What is virtue is in the bulk
That is scorned by all who see?
How does one become sulk
And ego becomes too small to be?
What is the worth of skin
That is born to be taunted?
And how does the cost of one's sin
Priced lower for those who are wanted?
Beauty is but the heart we cover
And all the love we speak.
But spiteful people and many other
Care less of how we are weak.
Ones who have minds so egotistic
Are those who have a bad characteristic.

June 1997

So long it is in these idle days
The torture prolonged with no aid.
That I say there are no ways
To tell the definite ways I have decayed.
Oh way, but the pen I write
And speaks like a tongue of the mind:
Which sings its songs upon this paper every night,
And is the quarry of ideas that are mined.
But with only love and never pride
Can I tell you the need of change?
And so I have, with hate aside,
And to others now I am strange.
To these days that I owe,
A peace of glory and a new show.

June 1997

To a past friend what is there to say
But nothing and the pain of silence?
Does quietness give a way
For the emotion of violence?
The thought of our past joy
Serves my memories at the most:
That I was the most of coy
And assisted typically as a bad host.
Will it matter if we are not friends
Because we never tried before?
So now my heart rends,
That, now, I have no friend to adore.
What a friend I have devised-
Not even my feelings can be revised.

June 1997

What youth I have had
Withers in all compare.
That I will be a helper lad
Dimmed beyond repair!
But yours is a content mind
And mind only witty.
Other joys your can find
While mine-only pity.
Oh Brianne-niece I speak,
The youth I hope you will not waste!
That I, in corners shy and meek,
Idled time with all haste.
In my mind I hope I'm right,
That I still have youth to give me might.

June 1997

I can't help but worship the past,
And try so hard not to repeat it.
But  I know it passes so fast
That even I can dig my death pit.
I do love; for that is our will.
This gives us more meaning to survive
But our hearts broken causes us ill,
That death is our only way to revive.
So we must live to overcome
 The past, the hurt, the glories and so-
Oh, dreams for me, and victories for some
The future will bring the truth I know.
I will love time with a heart of flint
Because the past is just time unreflectively spent.

July 1997

Whereunto a deep shallow pit
Lies a world of pitiful solitude:
Which saddens the world with its wit
And loathes all with no gratitude.
But still he lives in elderly veins
And in every desolate heart.
It plots through blood all our pains
And tears our joyfulness apart.
Only it brings a short summer breath
And quiet rains from above.
I hope he's absent until my death
And doesn't win the ones I love.
Rest the loneliness and raise the elation
And you will have a good reputation.

July 1997

A human so ignorant of his cower
Walks still to discriminate.
But constantly we follow him for power
And always deny our hate.
We think our soul is our skin
And deem others for it.
We begin to contradict our sin
And rank ourselves to a false wit.
I ask my mind at times and say:
“Why ask them to forsake their intolerance?”
In moments too soon I know a way
But to throw them the book of providence.
To those who are ignorant I only say,
“I swear you were born just yesterday!”

August 30th, 1997

On behalf of someone so admired-
I give only my highest respect.
We all wanted and desired
Her hand to hold and protect.
O! We mourn for this grain of grass
That has been cut by scythes.
You were worshiped, by most, by the mass
And hated by bearers of false myths.
I hope there is a moral in this-
For the guilty to feel remorse:
Never again shall they hiss
Until nature takes their course!
When folly was aroused
The Princess was demised.

Dedicated to:
In all charity,
Her majesty,
Princess Diana

September 1997

In all thought I am but morally wrong
And morally right for my life's sake.
Society's list of chaste remains long
And those who abide soon forsake.
Yes, I am pure and clean for the highest peak
And always do much to insure the best.
Even for the best insured: I speak,
Still to love and the welfare of the rest!
I would love that you would se me
As a testament of who I would come to know.
Not someone meek, shy, reclusive as I may be,
But only by common eyes you would see me so.
Truly, I have those uncommon emotions-
But my pen should manifest all my lost devotions.

September 1997

Manifest my heart, sole, and thought.
In all those I dare not express:
Still compounded but better wrought,
But with words, there are none to impress.
What little ways should make you wrath-
But to my infinite affection?
My needs are thinner than cloth
And not worthy of your rejection!
The smallest merit I dare endure
Is from you and your daring eyes-
That only you will dare see and ensure
The comprehension of the words I devise.
Read me and see me true.
Se me and I would be new.

September 1998

My! The days have flown and fallen
To this one, and here am I left.
To twice an advancement from soul in
And out without either bereft.
I tell you now my heart, blessed it be,
Has found, ever more than before,
Another, to confuse but still occupy me!
At last, out of the darkness forever!
What has happened that I should,
From these lines waist time to tempt,
Speak of the confusion still left not understood,
But, now, in every word I make an attempt.
Her sweet song I love to hum-
Addicted am I as a drunkard to rum.

March 1999

“Praemium virtus optimum est.”
And so it is, for I see her almost every day!
That virtue lies upon her finest breast
For any genius man should wish to prey.
Oh, but I am not a genius and still have those wishes!
But nor am I a fool to have those wishes conceived-
Though I admit myself to look one when my cheek blushes.
I submit myself to her power when this is achieved.
This is not the power of the psyche or will
Or even of the Devil's probable influence.
Is it God that overflows my mind with ill
And kills the former thoughts of prudence?
Now I think of no other moment to obsess-
Than to suckle that virtue and then progress!

March 1999
Her face is as her tender spirit-
Pleasing this mind to move this pen
To write my thought as I will soon fear it
For its firmly proceeding sin.
But lust is the lesser transgression
That fills full my chaotic mind
Which confuses all in its progression,
And provokes our teeth to grind.
But please mind me as best as you can
And for give the lusty lines I write:
For they are the response of a man
To his muses virtuous sight.
Her voice in dreams are as the songs of birds;
Luring me now to bite my words!

XLIV “Nautical Suitor” 
June 1999
When that fair face makes these words carry
throughout the seas deep and wide,
I laugh because they are only marry
but will soon fall as the tide-
only to rise again and drown my sorrows.
Submerged is now my present state:
Crying and screaming as the sparrows
and scorning the lusty words I dare to dictate.
But, see, I would rather drown in my love
than fly to hell like sparrows in my hate.
With luck on these seas I will stay above
and dream to have her as my mate.
We float on this unpredictable sea together
guessing-forth in love forever.
June 1999

“Love” is a word that loves not I
And its purpose is utterly dubious.
For when I think myself soon to cry,
My happiness is wholly superfluous.
I do not hate her, God forbid!
At least not as much as I do my perceptions.
Yet her perceptions I am daunted to bid-
Lest they are intended to be deceptions.
To tell you loves modus oproandi
I have no need: For we are human, God Bless,
Not errorless saints or dull castrati
Having left no goal or taste to possess.
My taste in love is evermore chronic-
Abide to purity and rid moronic.

June 1999

By tasting the merit of pure succession
In winning her lips by abiding,
I wish soon to have a matured progression
Of elite delight notwithstanding.
Oh! I cringe, just the day it should come.
When I would feel no exact sadness
In loving one who loves me from
Perfect prospects and all gladness.
Gladness that I make profit of
To advance every aspect in me:
I was afraid to see a woman and love!
But now I see there is nothing as easy!
Ha! I doubt the day `fore mentioned-
Just as much more my love is tensioned.

Unjournaled Works (10)
Circa 1999-2000

To what degree is my passion stretchable?
That I would stand still sickly appalled
From her beauties seemingly un-collectable
As I have for endless days installed?
This heated pursuit of un-pacified passion
Passing in partial pretense in my head,
Bearing with it a tragically evil mission
To burn my only love for anyone dead.
I am endlessly stretched to smother
A truer being I endlessly love,
Not as I would my faulty brother
But more than our God above!
Saying that, I would rather love her and be in hell
Then search for heaven under this spell!

Circa 1999-2000

The tree, lying rooted in its produce
Is young in its generation and sways.
Its sway is soft when the winds reduce
And, yet, softer more on fewer days.
Its limbs bare a produce tasteful to us
And, yet, not as large as an older tree.
It sways too oft to not drop a fruit. Thus,
They (in decay) are not so oft picked free
From each windward swaying limb, to be chewed.
The tree, laying rooted in its fruits
Is young and sooner are the limbs renewed.
Slowly it will grow in to its new suit.
And, still, this suit will be swayed less more
By having a bark much thicker than before.

I do confuse myself when I talk of trees.
When trees bare no heart, no blood or soul.
I do deny the obvious truths that those
Are mere saplings to which we drill our hole-
To rape it of its fluids most divine.
I am swayed, as that tree, to contract,
And agree with being choked by the vine
Whose grasp is infallibly intact.
(Unfinished sonnet)

Circa 1999-2000

I have loved many things in my day
And none of them I have counted the greatest.
If, then, I counted them, there would be now way!
If, then, I saw them each would protest:
“Grant me love and thereby your mind!
Sacrifice your life for my amusement!
Lay upon me your worth or I will find
Your soul to suffer my mistreatment!”
I could never call upon each of them
Supposing I would find a superior.
I know full well my greatest problem-
Choosing-I would find it the inferior.
I obsess over things that do not love me the same-
Ah! To cherish their hate and take the blame!

Circa 2000 (Last Sonnet found)

I have been saved and put aside for later.
But I, to the side, do not agree to this,
And I, to abide, simply carry on for her
This way in a childish hope that, in bliss,
I can learn the ecstasies in store for myself:
To kiss the feather-soft lips chapped and raw!
Though I do not agree to sit aside on her shelf
I still abide to carry on with this law!
That, even though my saving is involuntary,
I am to sit aside for some useful promotion.
As you see, I am not quite contrary
About telling her this true emotion:
“How am I to sit in childish hopes-
Further vexing myself with song-like mopes?!”

Circa 1998

Ah! She does not burn,
For love protects her life so well.
See? See what I have to learn
From this goddess I do tell?
She does not die so quickly-
So abrupt I do die when I view her:
Mesmerized are my eyes so sickly
On this loveliness so pure!
But me, beauty's witness,
Day-going mortal am I,
In shadow, waiting for fitness,
Resound a bellow and sigh.
Now it seems you have finally read me-
When before you killed me gently.  

Circa 1998-1999

(------) words that some proclaim,
(------) me as from the first day.
Their issues still remains the same,
(------) the word kills me to say-
But my sweet purity gives me many reasons
(------) virtue in these deadly fies.
Just once(------) of her gives me seasons
(------) words that cause sadness to arise.
(------) purity knows little of how I feel
And does not endure my pains,
She has a heart as clean as gold and hard as steel,
I hope over lasts in my sorrowful remains.
(------) you see me through,
I am too ashamed to even talk to you!

Circa 1998-1999

What am I so ashamed of?
The answer rips me wide
As to fear the whips of love
And being tutored to abide.
Ashamed of our faces:
That I would not purposely embarrass you
By being next to you, of all places,
And not feel the guilt of it too?!
Oh! Poor me with your silent thoughts!
What do they think of me?
Are our tongues tied in knots?
I would love to roar as the sea!
We seem so very distant
And inside we are so resistant.

Circa 1998-1999

Wanting to live seems mutable,
Especially being resistant to hard hate.
Bearing a tender heart that is un-amendable
From thorns of others' lunacy is a dreadful fate.
But you, softest of the sweet,
Give me more than a reason to pass a day.
The mutability changes in my heart's heat.
From over hearing every word you say.
I will try my hardest not to idol you;
That is the greatest of my sin!
Great Ovid! Spirit I summon to,
Teach me of life and my love to win!
I must tend to my life, and pacify
My heart of rights and wrongs to classify.

Circa 1998-1999

To you I ask “Am I now sadly dead
Or have I died, in fact, and am better off?
And so, is my death to be said
With hesitation, cry, or cough?”
I do hope that you would believe me,
That I, young master of these painful days,
Have human emotions as deep as the sea
And drowned in them because of others ways.
Ah! I am (forevermore) to lie dead,
Unless death already beckoned my last day at hand;
My last emotion has, is or will behead
The intolerance of me to her demand.
Sweet purity leaves me no denying,
That her beauty has killed me so-to die dieing!