He’s pissed at dinner.
Pointing out our short comings,
he makes no friends here.

She sits, a doormat,
on which he will wipe his feet
and leave his footprints.

I used to know God
but he moved away from here,
and he does not write.

Tree tops sway in wind,
grass will rustle in the breeze,
but I am unmoved.

My guitar lies dead,
a victim in a battle
‘gainst the inspired.

Black cat likes to sleep.
Turning circles while awake,
she makes her bedroom.

Books on shelves, dormant
they wait to be opened up
and be read again.

Mirror reflections
I want my life to be fake
just like on TV.

Buddha sits worshipped.
Jesus watches from afar.
They are both hippies.