I don't write poetry I just choose to make my feelings rhyme.
Kinda like the chaotic tune played by a wind chime.
There is no real rhythm just a sporadic sound.
Just like the thoughts in my head go round and round.
Hanging on the back porch of a mind that long ago cared.
Through many high winds I was some how spared.
Countless nights I echoed into the into the night.
Playing out my loneliness and screaming some thing isn't right.
The storm is to fierce can't you hear my screams.
It's destroying our home and tearing away our dreams.
The flowers you planted last spring there petals blown away.
All because you slept through the music I choose to play.
Now tangled and broken my songs end at last.
Just a distant echo from some where in the past.
