I have always been a writer in my soul and a poet in my heart. Some of my poetry is too personal not to be crazy-I simply hope it creates a mood. I have had both good and bad comments on The Poem of the Golden Schizophrenic, but nevertheless, parts of it still makes me weep unpretentiously, so I don't care what people think of it or me. My best friend is Cecil Krieger (CJ) and will always be, ... more »
Under a bough by the edge of a glen
a blanket of leaves were spread,
His chest became her pillow,
The earth became their bed;
They laid in twinkling shadow,
Their eyes bathed with leaves and sky,
'What e'er shall you do, my Darling, '
'when next year at this time I've died? '
'I'll pluck from the earth a red rose,
My face will be turned in a frown,
I'll whisper your name o'er and o'er,
And stormingly tears will flow down.'