James McLain Poems

When I was seventeen.
Like him the world was then.
I did all the rage when I was like him young.
The world was always open, not oppressed.
...

She was talking about
or where they both were going with out this.
Can you get more randomless?
What kind open line is this for conversation?
...

Prefect and the publican.
I am not and you are still.
Hiding in the open, why I am.
Heeding naught,
...

The why of this out wordly angels falling from heavan disorder.
Reaching out to those other worlds
never seen but by they and those whom call too the proffets.
Schizoaffective is this you the person?
...

Death however has one it's final exception.
Leaving us, it leaves us finaly to go.
With that feeling comes homesickness, no worry.
Do you not know, I do not know, but with us to be.
...

Perhaps then be fairness exactly the way,
to other things at first glance,
and, and it is better my request it has now.
There grew thick the sweetest green grass,
...

As for all the fair nuns running I run too their convent.
So it is not, but of why are you troubled?
The room where I Play whose hall is too narrow.
And I play the hermit therein and I am satisfied.
...

Going out with the tide.
Night and day.
The moon hides out there, between each new day.
Love is restricted
...

Thoughts to words will be some hairs
when running from the wolf as words
to gobble up magic window in it's
world of panic could not see when
...

Thoughts flowing ever growing
leaching from my mind
not just knowing simply going
anywhere it can
...