Here is some poetry I've been working on the past few years.

Some of this is dark and brooding and then some of it isn't. Regardless of the mood, I hope you like it.
Email me with any comments you might have.

Dark as night,

Cold as ice,

The ever expanding void, in my soul

engulfs all hope.

My search for a purpose

drives me; a modern Ahab.

Where are you? I haven't found you yet. It's not from lack of searching. Maybe if you looked too?

      The Thief of Hearts has no soul. Trapped behind the bars of love, he is in the dungeon of no return. This unfeeling knave was bested by the master. Disguised as a victim, she lured him with her innocence into a world he could not understand; the world of feelings.

       As unarmed as a newborn the Thief didn't have a chance. No hope for him as the master swallowed him whole.

       Thoughts drifted in and out of focus. "I cannot continue in this hell," he thought. "What if I never get out of here?"

       "Down here we all float."

       "Who said that?" The trembling Thief queried.

       "We did."

       "Who are you?"

       "We're you."

       Drip, drip, drip. Drops of blood slide effortlessly into the stygian darkness that surrounded the Thief. The coppery smell of those ruby droplets of doom burned his nostrils.

       "Who made you?" Not really sure he wanted to know the answer.

       "Who made who?"


       "You made us Thief. We are the lives and souls you collected throughout the past. We live hre in the darkness left by your empty heart. Out here we are stoned; immaculate."

       "I...I...don't understand." The darkness seemed to shimmer in a serpentine way.

       "Understanding is not your business."

       "Wha..." The slap made him reel. For the first time the Thief knew he wasn't alone; or was he. As fear crawled up his spine, its cold footsteps left his hairs on end.

       "Every life you ever intruded on, every soul you've judged, every countenance you've snatched for your own pleasure: they're all here. Each and every one of us. We are with you. And we love you." "Thief," the voices called in unison. "Thief of all," they cried.

       There was one: there were many. It all seemed a cruel nightmare to him as he struggled to regain control.

       "Ha! You fool. Control is not yours for the taking. We have control now and we'll not relinquish our hold. Just as you took us for your folly, we shall have our way with you."

       Thoughts, arc welding their way across his mind like the lightning flashes of a summer storm, etched their way into....

       Darkness. Pain. Realization. Lights shifting, swirling, changing like a photo album kaleidescope confusing and clarifying at once.

       "I know you. Now I remember." Shapes and texturous sounds abounded in silence. "How long has it been? Have I always been the Thief?"


       "Will I ever recover?"

       "Do you want to?"

       "Choices are never harder than when you have to make them yourself."

       "We know."

       "Stop that. Don't read my mind. I can't stand that."

       "Why not? You read ours." Snickers could be heard from amongst the floor rushes and squatters.

       "I didn't mean to. I had to do it. You wouldn't let me in. What choice did I have?"

       "CHOICE?" Growls, screams, the smells of fear and loathing emerged. "YOU made the choice Thief. We forced nothing onto you. Do not blame us for your inadequacies. They are yours to cherish. Your resistance is impetuous, but we shall convert you. You cannot escape the silence. Running is not an option, when we are YOU. The schizm can't get any wider. You've fallen into yourself. FOOL! You're not as smart as you think. This mindless life you called existence is over now. Wake up and feel the dawn of your failure as we laugh at you. Piteous fool. Your thieving days are over. Prepare to die and be reborn in HELL. The ashes of your funeral pyre will spread like the seeds of doom for all those like you. Our final offer is Feel or Die."

       "Torturous fiends, you leave me in a corner."

       "You did it not us. Did you think yourself immune?"

       "I AM immune. I am stronger than all. Your threats fall on deaf ears." The Thief bluffed no one but himself. He clamoured for those last flickering bits of reality flittering like moths about a flame. Loser of losers. This battle was over. He beat only himself. So, who wins this deadly struggle from within?

       The game is over. Everyone lost. Everyone won. Reality, the illusion gone mad, forced it's way into my life without an invitation and raped me.

       Stunned and reeling, I awoke from the apathy of anti-life. Ambivalence is the calling card of the masses. The few "thinkers" cling helplessly to their individuality and passionately cry out. It's their only hope; or fatal flaw. Anguish spreads like wildfire among the dried husks of our dreams. Justice? Not likely.


I know
the fear is there, I can smell it.
Trust, the killer of innocence
stands in the shadows waiting.

Be all you can be
Aim high
have fun, be young.

Two of a kind with the same past
sit on opposite sides of the fence.
One willing to jump,
the other paralyzed by happiness.
Can it be?
Not for me.

I want it all, three quarters of an inch square.
How do you compete with the "ONCE BITTEN.....
TWICE SHY" mentatility?

Trust; trust in me
trust me and all of your dreams can come true

or not......


            What I want            

I want to be nurtured

I want closeness

Faced with the choice between the light and the dark

I fumble along trying to come to grips with my desire

I want the dream

I want to fulfill someone else's dream

Should I go towards the fire?

or to the smoldering pile?

I know what will happen to the raging flame, it'll die

The pile could ignite at any moment, but will it?

Is it really better to have loved and lost than to never have loved before?

I'm tired of loving and losing

I'm gonna sit by that pile and wait, who knows what'll happen

I'll take door number three.

Sleep. Would you like some?

Sounds interesting. How much will it cost me?

Not much. It depends on how long you want to sleep. If you only want to sleep a while it won't cost much. But if you desire a long sleep it will cost you greatly.

I don't know. Sounds sort of risky.

Anything worth having is.

Well, whit's it like, this sleep?

Some say it's Heaven and others Hell. I don't like to do it myself. I believe it evil in nature. A mere escape from what's real. But you must make your own conclusions. I cannot do that for you. Perhaps if I knew what you're looking for I could help.

Escape, funny you mentioned that. Have you met my fiance? Me either. Doctor I've been having these pains in my chest. Can you help me?

Ground control to Major Tom.....

I'm scared.
It's o.k.
No. But you're weak. We understand.
Is there a bottom to this pit?

I close my eyes
and you're there
you're not mine
but I wish you were.
Shared glances and silent communiques
like psychic telegrams
we both know the truth
life just isn't cooperating
Damn the man.

"How am I ever going to explain this one?" whined Bill. "It's not like I can just pick up the pieces and put them together again. When Art finds out he's gonna kill me."

"What are you talking about?" asked Seth.

"Well, look and see for yourself; it's ruined."

"I guess so, whatever it was it's thrashed. What was it anyway? I hope you can buy Art a new one."

"No I don't think so, that would be an idea but the that stuff inside came out and stained all the pieces."

"Whoops, what was it anyway?"

"You see," explained Bill, "it's Art trust. He gave it to me before he went on vacation last week and I was careful as ever with it. Until I crammed this huge secret inside. It barely fit. His trust was pushed to the limit. Then when I was taking it home I tripped on that crack in the sidewalk. I dropped it and there you see the results."

"That's really too bad," mused Seth. "I guess Art will never give you his trust again."

ifif if if if if IF
It's only two letters long
not even very signIFicant
numerologically it is a 6
whatever that means
I know it is a pain in my ass
those two little letters have given me so much torture, both good....
and bad
sometimes I hate that word, but right now it's all I have
LIFe sucks

I can let go; if only for short periods now. It feels good to let my brain slide out my ear with a mucus plop-squish onto the floor. At least the lights and sounds help me hear the colors go by in their water music procession of reflection and brilliance. Inside myself I float like a feather on the breeze or a leaf in a pond. Amorphous longings fall victim to concrete circumstances.

I guess I picked the wrong day to stop sniffing glue.

the unwanted houseguest
terminally ill and highly contagious
no garlic to ward you off
it's not a dream
I shiver in your cold shadow
the warmth of closeness
and the sunshine of togetherness
like a lighthouse beacon
to a blind man.

A turn of the head
splashes of raven hair glimmer
like an onyx sea in turmoil
animation explodes across her face
as delight sits down on her shoulder.

That smile,
those dancing eyes;
they resurrect me.


The spark of life sets off a burning inferno.
My soul once dead
now dances in this pyre of love.

Your affect is amazing,
I'm dumbfounded.
A stuttering school boy with clammy hands
and a fevered brow.

I'd express my undying love for you
if I could only find my tongue.


I don't kow how it started; it just sort of did. I was there and you were there. I remember the sun was exceptionally bright that morning. I woke up to the sounds of birds singing outside my window. Brilliant rays of liquid sunshine washed across the room bathing everything in golden warmth and new day birth. I couldn't help but expect something unusual to happen.

The rest of the morning, although extremely beautiful, was uneventful. I washed up and had some toast for breakfast and began my morning trek to work. Everywhere I looked birds were singing, flowers blooming, and even the people on the street were nicer.

I walked into work and hung up my sweater. I don't know why I even bothered to bring it. The air was crisp but warm. My desk was clean and tidy. I didn't even have a single thing to do. That's when I heard a calling from the third drawer. I instinctively knew what it was: the manuscript. That old book I had started to write back when the imagination poured from me. Now it sits in the third drawer quietly; until today. Maybe it had always been calling me, but it was muffled by the urgent screams of the latest crises.

I thought the distance made me safe
I thought
I figured I was out of your range
I figured
I fought to not lose myself in you
I fought
in the end I lost it all to you
I lost
Helplessly attracted to you,
I'm never too far
I'll follow you anywhere
Just to be near

It was here, this is where it happened.

Really, I don't see anything.

You don't have to, just feel.

Must have been awful, it feels so, so gross.

Yes, in a way I guess it does, but beyond the initial cringe, the scent of fear, lies the essence.

Ahhh, yes I feel it now. Funny, though. There's no physical evidence to suggest that it ever happened. How did you find it?

By accident, really. It was very late that night and I was walking home from that inn down near Southwick Green, and I stopped to look at the stars. I remember it was a beautiful cloudless night. The hash was definitely taking it's effect and I must have swooned while pondering the enormity of the universe. I woke up some time later with that feeling upon me.

Which one? The one we feel now?

Yes, this one. I should have been afraid but I wasn't. There was some strange calmness surrounding me and I felt the inner peace of Love.

Inner Peace...I like the sound of that. I was thinking of a soft caress but it didn't entirely fit. No, Inner Peace is right.

If you stand here long enough, an hour, maybe two, you're whole body gets all tingly and you feel as if you can float.

No thanks. I don't much care for heights.

Black, white
pendulous thoughts swing between.
Friends for now, but tomorrow?
The Unforgiven.
Not again, I can't take the pain.
How many times must I endure this?
Doomed to love and noone to love.
Romanticism lives, most of the time.
My life's a wash cycle
Permanent press I think.
Wash, rinse, spin, dry. Yeah!
I can hear the emptiness coming for me
and the toothy grin of isolation mocking.
If there is a way, why can't I?
Life's not a Penthouse letter or a groovy sitcom.
Not for me anyway.