Book Fog

Wake just to fall to sleep once more. Destined to yearn for destiny until old age ravages all hope of tomorrow. Fantasies blend into a mixed hue of reality to be painted over the harsh chill of these white sterile walls. Some are not meant to live in a box as, remember, containment drives sanity crazy sometimes.

Adventure flaunts herself -- sluttish -- from page after page in novel after novel telling of life as it has never existed. Sure her image looks great but, its all been airbrushed! So why dare to dream for the morrow in a bland unexciting world? Nothing can compare to imagined imagery of another's overactive imagination. If only 'friend' existed outside those library scented pages.

However turn the last page of the last chapter in this the most recent of life's distractions. No sense holding on to little letters strewn about on a few hundred pages or so. Besides there are many more lives yet to live... escape anew.

Tired Grind

Too tired to write--
to pick up this pen
think of these thoughts all over again.

I'm too tired to write
to tap on these keys
the words they come slowly
sleep comes with ease.

Worries and worries
worries and woes
Stress keeps on churning
it ebbs and it flows

Still carry on
hoist the main sails at last
no time to tarry
The die has been cast

To tired to write
I say this, "the end"
Tomorrow comes quickly
The grind starts again