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El Grovez - A personal descent into psychosis


About Me
My Little Friend Earl:
Contact Me
Short Stories
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These are a few of my poems, I may change them randomly.

Fear of the Passing Hour

It's nearly early, due to it's being so late
In the poorly lit room I can hear the nights rain
Running down the pipes

I have seen a blind man fall to his death
And it affected me

The hours pass like irregular blocks of something
Quite intangible
Fifteen minutes - half an hour - twenty minutes
The clock won't even tick to keep a pace

As the time slips by without my giving notice
My will to action ebbs
I think only of the blind man
Caught in the jagged rocks below me

My eyelids become heavy and I gaze upon my bed
My body is lazy and my mind is not willing
So I sit and stare

I couldn't see his face
He was just an old man and he couldn't see
He took too many steps
And then it was over


A last look
Then the falling of rain
The slick road before me
Does not speak of happiness or good times

The coming storm invades my dreams
And turns them dark and oppressive
I can feel you coming
Draped in black and crimson

I expose my flesh that it might be seared
Hold out my hand that it might be broken
The pain rings true
Like nothing else

The sunshine of the coming day
Is my spirit broken
And I fend it off
Till the torment is more than I can bare

Lift my chin cupped in your soft hand
Kiss my forehead with your warm lips
I am chained and bound
But I have the illusion of flight

Does the Day Exist?

The long road wends to a point
And cold winds come off the black waters
The night sky lit only by sparse stars
A dark bird flies overhead

My hand reaches into the void
Feeling for your breath
For a glimpse of your warmth
The cold air and the bird prevail

If I were to embrace the water
Would it be warmer, more comforting
Than where I stand?
Or would I drown, cold black liquid filling my lungs?

I could rest beneath the tree
Which grows at the shore
Wait for the light, for daytime
But the question would haunt me

Does the day exist
Or is it delusion?

What's Wrong With Your Name?
For Beverley in South Eastern Onterio

The morning air, heavy with moisture,
could almost make me linger
I must be going, be on my way

The sun almost atop the trees gives me pause
as I look back, just once
The footsteps that I lay now will be permanant ones
and will be my future
Years from now I will look back
But that will be years from now, not tomorrow,
or the next day

I have felt your hand against my skin and kissed it
I have loved the soul inside,
But I must be going, be on my way

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