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

For every man who pleasures
There is a man who pains
For every man who loses
There is a man who gains
Yet all of them they pray
Pray in the good Lord’s name
Yet he treats us different
Yet he treats us unsame

Open that bottle of fury

Sealed with Vengeance’s lips

Demonstrate to the world

What anger really is