The best poems are never written,

they pass in sacred silence

No stanza captures,

a winter sunrise over a snow-draped pine forest

No meter equals,

the joy found in a first kiss

No style matches,

the sadness of losing a beloved friend

No alliteration belongs,

to the sore muscles and satisfaction of a good day’s work

No such license,

was ever granted a Poet



I see so many people burdened by such vast confusion today.

Suffering from a discontent they don’t understand.

Chasing dreams they never wanted to begin with.

Empty smiles for hollow, meaningless victories.

Deep in their hearts they know that they labor to build an empire of nothing.

Though they cannot admit it to themselves.

Desperately seeking solace in complex technologies where there is none to be found.

What a sad thing it is to make a living and not a life.