sometimes they go hear

poems that is...
not many, but some, have graced these pages. Fewer people will find them here- hidden amoung pictures few care to look at. I read blog entries dating back to England today. People read then...not that that matters. I wrote with substance- well, atleast i think so. There was hope, and naiveté. I think that's what this poem is about. I've been critical in my poetry lately...this is only critical of myself:

I have no poetry anymore
Only ridicule
And pointed prose.
The beauty of pensive porcelain
Has gone-
The depth of cobblestone.
I'm suffocating
In comfort
Drowning
In familiar
There is no longer music
Nor hearing
No cloud
Nor rain-
The things that remind me to feel.
This pen offers little hope
These words lack release
And the power to change
The reality I'm bound to.
I am no longer touched by fire.