A child’s heart is innocent
Sweet, simple and pure
Fill it with lies and deceit
Now that’s an adult for sure

They call me —
The luckiest man on the planet
Because I was struck by lightning
Twice
And survived each time
While I consider them luckier
To have never been struck by lightning at all

Can I keep a secret?
Tell nobody else?
The only way to do it
I must hide it from myself

If you must gift me something

Gift me wings

To help me fly away

From all the material things

A black cat with a tinge of gray

Crossed my tracks yesterday

It was anything but unlucky

For she helped the writer in me

A poem is not a reflection

Of the poet or his thinking

The poet, while, is a shadow

Of the poem that he’s drinking

He is merely a medium

Between the poem and the page

To flung the doors wide open

Of the concealed cage