when i was young, grass stains didn’t need to come out.

when i was young, cuts and bruises were badges of honor.

when i was young, i didn’t know what cholesterol was.

when i was young, i could tell my dog anything, and he’d agree with me.

when i was young, i WAS Batman… at least until it got dark out.

when i was young, i would never admit that girls smelled nice.

when i was young, the playground was an intimidating place.

when i was young, i never wanted mom to kiss me goodnight, but if she didn’t i would toss and turn all night long.

when i was young, i saw Star Wars in the theater and did not blink for two hours.

when i was young, beer tasted like piss (Not that i ever tasted piss, mind you. i was guessing.)

when i was young, the only ‘races’ i was aware of were the ones you ran.

when i was young, there was no ailment that a bowl of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle soup could not cure.

when i was young, i never knew the value of teachers.

when i was young, there was NO toy that could take G.I. Joe with the Kung-Fu grip in hand-to-hand combat.

when i was young, Dr. Seuss was my Hemingway.

when i was young, the friendships i had were supposed to last forever.

when i was young, a hug from my dad felt silly and embarrassing on the outside, but felt warm and comforting on the inside.

when i was young, “Oh, yeah!” was a clever a retort as i could come up with.

when i was young, i didn’t know squat (That hasn’t changed much.)

when i was young, time was an ally, not an enemy.

And now that i’m older, i don’t ever want to forget what it was like to be young.

we all hang masks in the gallery
to keep our true selves in disguise.
we all have a saucer full of secrets,
and tea cups full of lies.

souls have become imprisoned companions,
locked away in quiet surrender.
minds are decaying from daily routine,
no longer capable of imaginative splendor.

dreams of our youth move on like a stranger,
passed by on crowded streets of despair.
visions of triumphs, passions and glory
disappear with our childhood into thin air.

handicapped hearts crippled with fear
of aging in the blink of times eye.
afraid to grow old, unloved and alone,
amputated arms reach out for the sky.

eroded memories washed away in our thoughts
are exhaled with each dying breath.
we stand at the crossroads hitching a ride,
reaching out for the cold hand of death.

at the curtain call, no applause or ovation.
this play has gone on far too long.
so we sit in our chairs and passively rock
to the piper at the gates of dawn.

inside my head
is a whispering voice
dancing with my conscience. 
it bends my will
between its fingers
and i offer no resistance.

my ears meet
the inviting words,
i listen to what it is saying.
i know what is right
but i ignore it
as i feel my soul decaying.

like worms that feast
on a rotting corpse,
it feeds upon my weakness.
for every angel 
whose hand will guide us,
there is a devil whose hand
will tempt us.

time is an anxious lover,
impatient and selfish.
her cold arms embrace you
and with a tender kiss
that lacks only sincerity,
she leaves you
old and dying
with only dust covered 
memories,
and asking the question,
“where has the time gone?”
where has she gone?

in her eyes,
the reflection of a childhood
forgotten
and youth wasted 
on convenient love.

on her lips,
the sweet taste of passion.
on her tongue, 
the bitter taste of regret.

her soft hands cradle your 
face
and in the blink of your
watering eye,
she passes you by.

to open your mind
and accept any conclusion,
to see with eyes shut
through sardonic confusion,
to push through the clay walls
of suffering illusions
lies the art of madness.

to sing with the angels
and dance with the demons
that beat on the drums
of the down trodden bands men…

to drink from the cup
filled with unguarded emotion
and become drunk on the wine
of fugitive passion…

to obscure the misfortunes
of daunting heroics
and kiss the soft lips
of the miscreant poets…


this is the art of madness.