Pharmacologically YoursStridor in your sleep,an irregular heart beat-your congestive heart is failing.Your heart has grown,(pathological as opposed to romantic)and I know my love you're ailing;but I can't be your beta blocker, baby.There's a third party problemwhich I can't seem to erase.Don't look to me for ACE inhibition...Tachycardia, as your heart begins to race,tears on skin of lace;I hope you survive without the cure.I'm sorry,I couldn't be pharmacologically Yours.
the Road in RetrospectDriving home, just after sunset;my eyes on the road,but my mind in retrospect.Jim Croce is singing on the radio;words I've heard a thousand timesbut they don't feel timeworn in the least.It takes me back, moves me to the right,and I can hear him make the engine roar.It wasn't much; just an old Jeep;with four wheel driveand vinyl bucket seats.Jim Croce singing on the radio,and I crooning words I didn't knowwith childish confidence.Grinning in old sunglasseswhile Dad made the engine roar.Driving away, just after sunset;my eyes looking in the rear view mirror.
MullingI see it when you look my way;only love in your eyes.Like flowers blooming in Maya delicate happiness fills our lives.My heart beats faithfully;in you Ive found redemption.All the same, I'd give it upfor a little deception.Give me something to write about;wont you break my heart?Act jealous, petty, quick to judge,that would be a start.I'm not one to beg,but this I cant do without.Won't you just walk away,and give me something to write about.I grow weary of romance,it's time to start a show.This could be the last chanceto save a failing flair.Epics are not set in heaven,they are rooted deep in strife.To conquer the empty pageyou must disrupt my life.Please give me something to write about,I beg dont take this lightly.Frustration has possessed my thoughts;I am haunted day and nightly.The pen once glided in my hand,but now the inks run out.Scrawling only scratcheswhen theres nothing to write about.Give me something to wri
ArtA glittering curtain of scarlet brocade drapes around the stool as you ease down onto it, letting the trail of your cloak fall around the stout black quadruped and hide it completely. You sigh and let your spine relax into a curved heap, shaking your fingers out of the gold-threaded sleeves that hide the white of your hands and the rings that ornate your razor-sharp knuckles. Perhaps there is a reason why all pianists let a silence endure before they play, but you arent familiar with it- you dont want to play like everyone else. You cant resist to the temptation of letting your piano speak, hear its echoing, solitary voice trickle from that large black casing that holds imprisoned an entire well of sounds and nuances that are just there, just a key away, and that very knowledge takes away your breath before you even start playing. You are shy before this great instrument, though you cant possibly let its voice remain wrapped up and gagged by those treacherous ch