My written words are apt to spell out the
Less possitive aspects of my brain. Divorce
And pessimisms. Doubts and less than
Stellar childhood memories. Dreams
Of giant apes and spiders and ghosts
Seem to haunt the black well of my pen.
In everyday life I tend to be more or less
A cheerful person - quick to tell a joke
Or hug on my kids. I love the warm sun
And White Castles. Isn't that enough
To warrant me a happy guy? Perhaps...
Maybe...possibly...could it...might it just be
Poetry is my way to vent the poisons?
If so, why do I write so many poems of love?
Maybe I'm just graphically bi-polar.
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