Sleep, my friend….
Iced or warm, the bourbon burns
Down my hollow throat to where it goes
The liquid spawns my rues and churns
Then stillness comes a ready dose
Upon my tongue the tastes of rye
In subtle hints it lingers on
So smooth the texture when applied
It suits the background saxophone
Beyond my panes the cosmos call
The dreams of many, then of one
My pen to ready, words to fall
The verse is like a hired gun.
The inkwell bullets charged in black
The vellum sits upon the oak
Ascribed those words to bring me back
And let those feelings really soak
I dwell in oft persuasive thoughts
Unsure of how to scribe my words
Where sleep becomes an afterthought
I dabble with some nouns and verbs
The fire burns with haunting light
The crackle sparks my slumbered muse
My pen, the blade of wielded might,
To script of all my different views.
I keep the fire burning bright
With failed attempts I stoke the rage
My windows glowing through the night
As all emotions hit the page.
I whip a tale of worldly fights
Of man and how he struggles on
His rage, his joy, his thorny plight
The breakdown of his paragon.
The moment he’s in need of love
A woman there to hold him tight
To fight for him without the gloves
To be there when he’s lost his might.
I’ll craft her lips and then her heart
Her lips for which he ‘ll ever kiss
I craft her brain and other parts
A brain so they can reminisce
A way so they can explore themselves
Explore those eyes of azure sky
Explores their thoughts, the parallels
Explore how chemistry applies
And then I’ll write some cheesy line
Some pick up quote to lure her in
Something so trite but genuine
A spot for where true love begins.
I’ll follow that with swift heart break
A plight that makes you scratch your head
The moment where a small mistake
Could leave this union all but dead
I’ll craft the art of making up
The poem that becomes their flesh
The hunger that desire cups
And serves up an erotic mess.
I’ll set the scene of sprawled off sheets
Of pillow cases on the floor
The aftermath of lust’s caprice
A negligee draped on the door
The morning next with thin regrets
With haunting doubts of down the road
Is makeup sex with cigarettes
The best it gets for this abode.
I’ll write of how they made the choice
To bring a child into this world
To see their bonding have a voice
A little boy or little girl
I’ll pen their days up to their death
Of graduations and of life
I’ll pen the days of their last breaths
Of when the reaper swung his knife.
I’ll conjure up some sorry scene
Of funerals and tears of ache
Someday you’ll see it on a screen
But first off let me take this break…