There's a certain brightness about this image.
It's levels are perfect; it's curves are seductive.

The exposure, the one thing the camera has complete control over,
is the work of a master.

Yet the vibrance is horrible.
It's color balance is leaning towards red,
it's green channel is completely missing,
and the blue...black.

It abuses the threshold of beauty.

I've tried variations of the theme,
matching the color,
replacing the color,

and yet this image,
that looks so perfect in the dialog boxes,
is brutally ruined
by the mis-mixed blacks and blues.

Life should have a reset button.
One where, after I say something like,
"Oh no sweetie you don't look a day over 39"
could be pushed to erase, purge, these words
from the history of conversations between
my wife and I.

It could be useful to everyone:
the student who failed a test,
the teacher who stayed up watching Survivor instead of grading papers,
the plumber who flushed the toilet too soon,
and the artist whose portrait is perfect, except for the crossed eyes.

Why is it that the more we live,
the more and more we see the need
for something as simple,
yet divinely inspired,
as reset and purge?

I've spent years reading books,
turning the pages for other lives
like a butler, or a slave.

Learning only those things that others taught;
thinking for myself others' thoughts.

How wonderful it is
to have a son!

Freed from high educations constant ringing,
freed from the stress of writing essays,
I learn, I think, I write my own thoughts!

Everything up until now,
my life before my child,
was wasted thinking others
could teach me how to read, think,
live,

and now I know the secret;
you can not cuddle, snuggle, embrace
books.

It's the flowing of ink 
the endless motion of paper turning 
that moment 
when I post my poetry 
that under my name appears 
"Fear of the Shadow" by Olsen W. Potter 
at Amazon.com followed by a red link 

I daydream of publishing my writing 
and people actually reading it

I opened a photo of us 
the one where we're kissing 
under the oak branch 
pre-marriage 
in Photoshop 
just to see if I could make it better 
lighten the shadows 
fix the levels 
apply a soft blur to our edges 

but I guess 8 years 
on an archived CD 
had made that blissfully near-perfect image 
melt

I wish I could photoshop 
your face to be more friendly to me. 
My RAM can't handle the sorrow in your eyes. 
I'd love you if it weren't for that.

It was a just little shop 
on the corner of 10th and Washington. 
I had 10 minutes to kill so I walked in 
and immediately knew I had found my Kryptonite. 
Huckleberry Cheesecake, Caramel Cashew Crunch, 
Fire and Ice, Chocolate Heaven, Pumpkin Spice, 
were in plastic bags all lined up like the firing squad 
aiming their kernels at my heart. 

I have to go everyday now; 
I mean, even the kettle corn is 
faith promoting.

I thought, 
before I get married I should plan my honeymoon, 
so I took down a map and charted a course 
for Coeur D'Alene. 

It seemed to be a 9 hour trip, 
doable, 
but it would be so fun to stop in 
Bliss for a day, 
just enjoying each others company. 
Maybe have lunch in Cable Car Crossing; 
dinner at some diner in Darlington. 

Of course we had to stop in Fernan Lake Village, 
it would be in June and the lake would be green. 
And Horseshoe Bend was a must see. 

By the time the road brought me to Post Falls, 
where I planned on reserving our hotel, 
we would have passed through 
Ireland Springs, Judge Town, Knowlton Heights, 
Quartzburg, Underkoflers Corner, Yellow Dog, 
and Zaza 
taking 3 months, 2 days, and 7 hours... 
before we even got where we were going. 

I gave up; we went to Vegas instead.

There exists, in my mind, a couple. They fascinate me more than the books I read. And every once in while I write a poem about them. Life would be richer perhaps if I wrote their story in novel form, and who knows, maybe one day I will, but for right now I write their story in poetry. I post their story so far for you to read and enjoy.

Baskets

Emma was standing outside
Barnes and Nobles
Holding a basket of books.

Wayne winked.
She smiled.

They’ve been
Reading each other ever since.


Wedding Night

In black and red passion
They strip each other
Of their innocence.
Like two ancient gods hammering out
The last of their thunder before
Reason and Logic overpower them.

Wayne lies in the double bed,
Naked, spent, imperfect, the power
of Gods flowing through him,
as he watches Emma,
Dark haired Emma,
wash the make-up from her face.

The water is stained the color of regret.


Lua de Mel

It was a 9 hour drive,
Made longer by Wayne’s reading of
Tartuffe for his English degree.
The only honey Emma found on the trip
Was the moment, in a Barnes and Noble
(they were browsing the relationship section
For a book on Oral sex), when Wayne,
Looking at an illustrated Karma Sutra,
Shut up about books,
Looked Emma in the eye,
And said, “hum.”

She loves it when he’s speechless.


Reasons

Emma’s mind, like the faint light
Floating in on Wayne’s pillow,
Hovers, then retreats
To life before marriage.

He kicks in his sleep.

Last night, she told him
he doesn’t share everything
with her.

The music of their marriage
Is made from bubbling cheese
And noisy kisses;

Not from lights that turn red for a moment
or Emma’s embraces.

She takes Wayne with her everywhere,
Sharing with him her fears,
her dreams,
The stress of her every day.

He couldn’t understand that
When she left.

The First Year

Emma went back,
of course.
Her mother told her,
"You picked him",
made her feel guilty,
made her feel unloved.

Wayne had done the dishes.

She found him sitting
in her chair,
next to the bookcase,
reading King Lear
with the cliffs notes.

She laughed and said,
"let me explain".

And she did.

We only have one store in town,
the big bad wolf come to destroy everything we hold dear,
or at least drive all other businesses from the bank of our river.

So when my wife asked for some prescription pain-killer
(and also some latex-free "friends")
I forced to face the fiend.

They were painting the L
when I walked into the gaping maw
they call a sliding door entrance.

A friendly old person, brain-washed
to say only 'Hello, would you like a cart?'
asked me if I would like a cart.

I told her no, thank you,
turned, ran out the door,
and slipped on a puddle of freshly spilled white paint.

The Manager of the monster
brought me a 4 dollar knock-off for the pain,
which I took it home to my wife and said, "Sweetie, next time aspirin and latex will have to do".

I've been told I look like the Miller,
short, round, somewhat balding.
I take it as a compliment, because I
am, short round, somewhat balding.

So I read his tale. Seemed simple enough.
A girl, a guy, the girl's old husband,
the priest down the lane that likes to kiss
peoples "ers".

I like it enough to read it to my wife,
who, like every other time I read something to her,
gave a whimper. No laughter, no smile.
A whimper of disgust? A whimper that really said,
'Honey, I love you but stop reading to me'?

or was it a whimper of pain?

If only life were as simple as
the Miller's tale.

Her costume caught my eye
as it swayed with the beat,
beat,
beat.

Her feet flowed with the song
like hair in the wind;
her black hair that smelled of mangoes;
the wind that smelled of rice.

Her name was Sandrinha,
little Sandra,
smiling Sandra.

Her reaction to my watching
was a slip of the foot,
causing the team to miss a beat
and lose.

Her only regret after 3 years of love,
crazy-passionate-exotic-Brazilian Love,
was that her Samba team had lost.

I'm an unpublished poet,
still in school.
I teach computers at
the community college.

Somehow
I managed to pay
for twelve dozen red roses.

The color of her blood-clot.

I choked on those petals
when the clot broke free.

I had envisioned a huge truck full of Oreos and Cheez-its,
That you would have to excavate to find a question that I wrote
on fancy smelling paper I found in my mom’s underwear drawer.

But I’m on a budget and couldn’t afford the truck and the driver (DUI, you know…).
Besides I’d eaten two bags of Oreos and all of the Cheez-its before I realized
That my mother likes to keep the things in that drawer private.

So I wrote a poem. It’s romantic, it’s easy, and it doesn’t cost anything,
Oh don’t worry I’ve planned the coolest date for the day, we’re going
To go milk cows at my uncle’s farm…you’re not allergic to mice, right?

I do have to ask one favor, can you pay for pictures? My family thinks that
The camera steals your soul, something to do with Uncle Bob and Aunt Jane
Going crazy after they got their picture taken at the Here’s Ur Sign convention.

We can wear matching over-alls! Momma says that they’re “easy” clothes. Her
And dad wear them all time to bed; she keeps hers with the smelly paper and strawberry
Flavored lip gloss. I invited my cousin Jimmy to come with; he’s taking his sister Bessie!

So, You wanna come? Be ready to kick up your heels, cuz we’re going square dancing!

It’ll be a hoot!

Waiting with a five year old
in the doctors office
with the bruise hiding his face.
I wish I could cover myself.

I didnt do it...
His mother, a meth user,
hit him in the night
when he had a nightmare,
wet his bed,
called out her name...
she didnt care.

But people dont know that.
They think I'm the dad,
I'm the culprit of this crime,
That I was jealous of his black eyes,
his brown cheeks,
his spanish voice.

I wish I could mask myself as white powder,
and tape her striking her son,
but I can't,
so I sit and wish I was camouflaged.

There are no scales,
no morning breath
from left-over page
with Knight gravy.

They look like a lizard
but not a lizard.
Like a human
but not quite.
They look like a mix between
a castle moat
and Stone Henge.

They drink ice water,
with a slice of King.

They live in waterfall caves
like Frank Lloyd Wright's
Falling Water, Bear River.
Style, Class, and little elf girls
that feed them sushi wrapped in skin.

I called her today around 3:00
Said “hey baby how about hanging in the park,
Watching those crazy star-wars freaks choke each other
With their invisible hands and slash each other with plastic light sabers?”

She said, “ok.”

So I went to her house
in my white hippie van made for making love.
Singing Sweeney songs, the sweet sound of sharp
Notes filled the spine of Harold Bloom with a literary pain in the ass.

She said “hey,”

When I knocked on the door.
With my black “cool cat” beret on my head
I looked like the owner of my “books on wheels” hippie van,
As well as Mike Myers from “So I married an Axe Murderer”, only better looking.

She kissed me.

I kissed her back
and threw her in Wisp the magic van,
driving down Park Avenue like Batman chasing a lead.
Except I am a safe driver, only leaning to kiss her on the yellow lights.

She just laughed.

We got to the park
And no one was there but us, the freaks
Must have left the premises when they saw the White Streak
Of Love coming from afar; screaming out passion and fire as it squealed it's wheels.

She said, “sweet.”

Not one to mince words,
I kissed her like New Years Day after two Jacks
And a Strawberry Daiquiri with a slice of lemon and a splash
Of sex. It shuts her up for a moment; she talks enough to chew the ear off an elephant.

She said, “wow”.

The radio on the bus is blaring out
The news of a fire somewhere.
The man who sits next to me
Is wearing cattle skin and drinking
coffee from a cup marked "Caution Hot!"
I need something for the pain.

It’s a hang-over, head-smashing pain.
I got it last night at Rebecca’s party, out
near a river, where my girl, hot
With Tequila Sunrises, wished to be somewhere
Else; wished to be drinking
In public without me.

She doesn’t love me.
Adding an emotion-numbing pain
to my introvertive drinking.
only in the unassuming night I go out;
To the movies, to a bar, somewhere
Other than my dump. Anywhere hot.

The sun, that big hot
Eye with searing rays, stocks me.
Every time I kiss her somewhere
lower then her lips I feel pain.
Because I'm always out
of it; always drinking.

I find escape, relief, Home in drinking.
Those Tequila Sunrises, makes her hot
pent-up pleasure fizz out.
So its the bus for me,
Causing my red retinas pain
Because I can’t get off somewhere.

Because I can’t get off somewhere
With my girl. My drinking
leads to skin-boiling pain.
why the sun is so hot?
Is it jealous of me?
Jealous it cant black out?

I want to go somewhere parched and hot,
drinking instead her love for me;
Maybe absorbing her pain will finally dry me out.

Cut to the heart of the subject,
poetry-hater,
and tell me,
why?

Why don't you enjoy
smelling the scent
of freshly read words
in the air after reading
a poem?

What's the probelm
with the taste of letters
merging to create the
sound of life in your mouth?

Perhaps your tongue
refuses to have worthy
company join it for dinner?

Where else can you
find the soothing touch
of meter and style
on a night when the raindrops
mix, join, and combine
to form whispers of regets?

You're to busy for Poetry
you say?

Maybe Poetry's to busy
with me
to find you.

Olsen W. Potter

I get my mail at 11:15.
By 11:30 I was kicked out of the house.

It was the day after Presidents day.
I’d brought her a new select comfort mattress.

In the mail was a coupon.
“Mail in for your free bra!”

It wasn’t addressed to me,
But Gisele was on the front.

I have a weakness for hot Brazilian chicks.
So I took it inside.

My wife saw it, took it,
Ripped it up. Giselle’s face

Was torn just left of her nose,
Right down her beautiful Bra line.

She missed the coupon though,
So I mailed it in.

Figure I’ll give it to her,
With a dozen roses.

I wake-up with no one.
I feel like John Donne.

I'm pious so I raise the kid,
I won the "sober" buyout bid.

I've got PB&J and a carton of milk,
She's living it good, lying in silk.

In the drive, there's a 98 Silhouette
Cost: $15,000; I'm still in debt.

Jamie has to get to school,
I'm her pet, her dog, her mule.

I return home and write,
stuff thats nice and polite

When I really just want
to write in Hate-mail type font.

It's blades,
it's hammering,
it's a head-ache from an old testament god.

It's losing,
It's lost,
it's disarranging your mind.

It's rape,
it's drugs,
it's a shock from a deflibulator.

It's being homeless,
It's love's labor lost,
It's misplacing your heart.

It's long distance love.

Glancing at my face,
you don’t see it's a mask
to cover the pock-marks
of Schizophrenia.

The brother eyes of
Charles Manson,
my bladed eyes
are blunted by
Prozac and Lexapro.

Ah...my lips
are the lips
of a Crazy;
always smiling.
Want a taste?
I’m told my kiss
unlocks the furnace of Hell.

This sensitive mask
quickly dissolves
when studied,
receding into
a narcissistic skull
of left-over emotion.

Scott, my friend
in the white coat,
tries to discover my ailment,

But I've secreted
these gifts away,

I've buried them
into this opaque flesh.

I stood there with a crunch in my shoe,
I had been running in rainbow-half circles all day.

The workman at my house had a hammer;
quirky, he put plastic around it and kneaded my bread.

EXTRA EXTRA READ ALL ABOUT IT!
The Mcdonald barn burns in an accident with some plastic and a bread-maker.

The sterling stamping of silver nails into my counter
enflames my head more then the bread-making workman.

Olsen W. Potter

I love to be the stamp
Of a black epitaph
In black ink
On the first line of “Date Due”

I walk out with 3 or 5 or 2
And rip into them,
Breaking that virgin spine
Into beloved used.
gargling their words
to wash out
the talking-breath
of everyday conversation.

Give them to me, these icons of god’s addiction;
I want to saturate
in the serum of their forgotten fruit.

When the Portuguese found you,
A river in January,
The Samba, the Christ, Carnival
weren’t what they sought;
The wanted the gold of the land,
The slaves hidden within the natives,
The wood that has more life,
Nothing but gain.

When I found you,
A lake of passion,
The language, the food, Cariocas
Captured my soul.

I want to speak the golden language
Of the tongue,
Experience the samba of food on my tastebuds,
And let the carioca’s carnival
Releash the native in me.
I want nothing, but your passion.

May your ears screech
With the creaking of cellar doors,
While your heart echos the splintering of a shattered soul;

May your eyes melt
With tears,
as your skin
sizzles in shame;

May your spit be crossed with Arsenic,
Your tongue, a scythe
That dooms the lies you decree;

May your nose, cascading scum,
Sneeze out the lust that danced
while you fermented in your desire;

and

May your life be as
A room full of 30 empty chairs;
Love’s casket leading in their lament.

You’ve yet to speak,
Still you swirl in my thoughts
Like a hungry vulture

I want you to experience Life.

Life that, without your mother, will batter your patience
With the man who tries, to feed you infant formula and pat your back till you
burp,
But can’t fill that tenantless chair, that empty nest of stolen devotion.

Life that will burn the plastic off your lampshade,
that boy will create a crack of sorrow on your heart,
And you’ll call, needing a ride, crying, and I’ll just say that it’s ok
Because now you can understand your father.

Life that will steal you to marriage.
I will stand in line; my right hand a prisoner of war,
my left boycotting this oceanic alliance,
because I’m losing you, my writing hand, to some dude with a Corvette.

Life that will let you be a mother,
that headache from an old testament God,
letting you fill your own chair with your written laughter,

What I want for you is the knowledge that I sit today,
widower and Father,
and praise your life.

This is the assignment for my poetry class this week. We were to write a persona poem, a poem that's speaker is not the poet. I dont want to ruin the poem; so just let me what you think.

A Chip.

While I've got you here,
Mr. No caffeine for me- strictly Decaf-
(Do you think of my well being when you say that?
Maybe I need a shot or two to heat my inner self.)

We need to talk.

I can still remember warm milk by our bedside, Tolkien slept next to me, while the lamp and I
(Did you throw her out too?)
Flirted pull sting with handle.

I remember eggnog and nutmeg
the snow outside the window looked like flakes of sugar,
I always swirled a little just to see the whipped cream decorate your nose.

And remember your wedding night?
Who was the one that tipped out of the cupboard
red wine in your hand, shyness fleeing from my white stare?

Now this. A chip to disgrace my gold rim.
as if the tea ring ‘round my nethers wasn’t enough for you,
I bet you dropped me on purpose didn't you?

Don’t look at me with that rag,
you can't clean away my feelings.
You can't sip away my pain.

I use to think your eyes were like hot chocolate,
we had something special -you and I-
Now because of this chip, I get the can.

IT WAS YOUR FAULT.
I was sleeping away, dreaming of a certain mocha latte that
always animates my porcelain,

When you grabbed that new thermo-whatever
and knocked me awake with a crash,
breaking away my dignity.

We're washed-up, on ice,

Trashed.

Laying in a bare bed,
a black blanet twined around,
like ivy climbing the trellis that moonlights as a ladder
to the balcony of a lover who has been absent for too long,

thoughts come and go
fleeting feelings of friendship, love, passion

until at last, like a unwelcome invitation
to the wedding of our one true love,
sleep comes to the mind,
releasing colors before our closed eyes.

Remember? Remember
the image of a solid tree.

Loneliness comes with the mixing colors,
flowers grow, bloom, and die
all while the tree stands tall
waiting for a splash of white to erase

The colors that blind our eyes.
The blanket lets go,
As cold takes over the bare bed
betraying us to feelings of numbing desolation.

Olsen W. Potter

The blood on my hands goes to show you
that life is not all that it seems,
the red in my eyes seems to prove
that corrections have to be made.

They call it a sacrifice,
to give up all that you have
to a stranger you barely know,
give because you can.

I'm sick of playing nice,
forget tender and kind,
I'm playing a new game now,
one where I'll never be hurt.

So this blood that drains from my lips,
this blood that feels so warm,
is to prove that I can be mean,
I've warned you, stay away from my storm.

This red that never fades
made to cover up inside,
these feelings of love and truth,
Feelings I wish I could hide.

I through playing by the rules,
forget sweet, forget kind.
I'm a new me now,
I hope that you dont mind.

Caressing on my hand,
soft, warm, leather-like;
thoughts of meadows and brooks
paint a landscape of sensations
on my skin.

Time, a round room with
a blowing breeze,
alone.

Pages turn creating wind,
cooling down a self-hate;

not wanted, not needed,
not here.

"Sorry I'm not in my mind right now,
call back later"

changes

"I'm better,
call all you want!"

I asked if I could tell you that
I loved you.
I asked if you would
hold my hand.
I asked why you
were smiling,
you just keep smiling
back.

I haven't asked if
I can trust you,
why ask a question
you already know?
I told you
that I love you,
what more is there to trust?

Absolute dread,
a moment when I can feel tension,
like a cat in the headlights of my eyes.

Closing in around me,
I can't seem to move or think
its takes over and will not relinquish its hold.

Fighting, almost like loving,
only strengthens its power
to overtake my mind with images of humilation.

Closer and closer still it comes,
What can I do but let it take me?
All it is
is a simple
kiss.

We entered,
not just a simple store
but a warehouse converted to
the worshipping of all things manly-

Homage to the bullet;
Shrine to the Hunter-

Two kids-cowboy boots and all-
push a cart that reads
"Customer in Training"
I stopped and wondered,
amid the countless colors of cowboy hats,
"Men in Training"
is better.

Not being a hunter,
a fisher,
an athelete;
its hard to understand just what it is
that makes a man.

Poetry,
rhyming,
sounds,
everything and nothing said on an empty page.

Love,
laughter,
sorrow,
capture the attention of the reader like a burning book.

One look,
one movement,
one word,
destroys walls and castles quicker then anything else.

Fear,
Hate,
solitude,
keep me within my own castle's walls.

"You always look so proper,"
but I'm only twenty-one.
"You always know the anwser,"
But I'm younger then you all.

"You're so kind and gentle,"
"You're so warm to touch,"
"You're voice is so soft and tender,"
yet I still sleep with just my books.

"You're such a good guy,
to help that grandma with her bags,
to help that kid learn to read,
to do everything you're asked,"
still I sit alone...

Squeezed in between the Bulher Agency
and the Thai Cuisine
is the Sushi Ya-
Friday Night-
out with the guys,
well fellow employees at least.
I had a godzilla-cripsy crunch-
a Happy- my mouth wasnt full of joy-
after a cup of courage-
A.K.A. Lemon Water-
I tried a Crystal Shrimp...
the urge
to go
overcame me.
The bathroom was pure black
with a wanna-be Piasco
paino player painting
hanging above the sink.
The mirror was displaced
along the wall it ran,
in front of the john.
As I sat
I saw and thought "why?".
The iron butler stood there,
arms outreached, a tray of toilet paper,
as if to ask so kindly
"May one be of service sir?"

-Olsen W. Potter-

I said I'd write you notes
in the freezer-
you laughed.

I said it didn’t matter.

I said I would write you poems
everyday-
you smiled then cried.

I said I love you.

I said that I would be there
with you-
you hoped more I.

I said I couldn't make it.

I said I'm having problems
with my mind-
you love me anyway.

I said it hurts.

I said I would always
love you-
you said to keep in touch.

I said a simple "O.K."

Yesterday, the day before, this whole week,
without talking to you.
Today, as well, I wont get to
I'll be coming home somewhat late.

I adore the words
"Samira has entered"
its like the sun just came up,
or my soul just found Christ.

Maybe...I'm wrong,
it could be that I just love you to much.
but I believe that you complete me
you fill that abiss of sadness.

Ah, my love, why were you born?
to love me without end?
Your holy mission, the reason for life,
Could it be you were born for me?

And why do I live for you?
You've pasted your smile on my heart,
Imprinted the words of love on the air
that no one else can hear but us.

To what end will we love?
Until the poets forget their words?
Until presidents and kings realize their wrong?
I want to love you until the soul loses its religion.

Poems, words, thoughts,
help with this distance between us,
Still what I want more,
is to feel your kiss in my life.

Olsen W. Potter

Passion, like a flower
blooms when I think of you.
Not you on the phone, not you online,
but the real you, the flesh that my body desires.

Deep inside my very soul,
lies a beast, a wonder
that thrives on thoughts of you,
I try to feed him as often as I can.

Can you hear him?
Screaming to be let out.
I can barely control him in public
when at home, he runs free, heat and love combined in my mind.

Then you enter...
the beast goes wild.
He sings your love like a song of thousand years that
floats across time and land to touch your tender heart.

You speak,
it tames him.
He only stays quite to listen, harkening to your words
his very life force thrives upon such moments, as when you say
I love you.

Waiting, he sits inside my chest
where no one can see but me
and you, when I release him.
This desire of love that overcomes me.

He doesn't sleep. Rather he projects in my mind
images of you, sleeping, working, loving,
He obesses over the little things,
he wants me to do to you.

He's the poet, not I.
I can not write such words of devotion,
He spends the day debating sounds and words
that can convey this deep emotion.

Oh how he loves you, my sweet
He loves the taste of honey that your spirit gives to him.
He's my soul, my spirit, my heart, my all,
he's your's for the taking, please take!

I long for when I can release him
in touch, in love first kiss.
He begs and cries for that moment
when our lips will meet in god's bliss.

I warn you, He is not tame
a tiger... his teeth sharp with desire
He bites your heart with poems and words
A firm grip he has, he won't let go.

Please take him, accept him as he is!
Nothing else can sooth him, but for your sweeping fingers
caressing his restless love for you.
Please, dont make him wait any longer.
Please, dont make him wait...

Driving today,
a friend saw me
I looked like a rocker
she said
maybe because I need a shave.

Class, well it's ok
I wish I could just get it over with
like some pregant rock heaved upon my back I carry around my work
Crazy, Psyctic, and Mad
are really the only words for it.

My mother is sick
breathing through tubes
that twist and turn until they create a mask that I can't see through
to kiss my mother on the forehead and tell her
she'll be alright.

Negetive is a big word,
sincere maybe?
a little dark perhaps
Its hard to let the sunshine through when your covered by the dark clouds of a storm.

I'm devouring my book
I'm a monster when it comes to reading
my hand like machine turn the pages,
while my eyes,
huge round lasers,
scan the page and swallow all that black print.

Ah, let the books like rivers flow,
into my mouth and brain!

A friend saw me driving today
she said
I looked like a rocker
little did she know,
I was listening to Brazil...

Oh give me back my heart so dear,
and my love that I may hear,
the voice inside that gives me joy
and leads me in my rightful track.

My love for all was once strong,
and now it is but small and gray,
I wish that things hadn't been this way,
but doubt destroys the truest heart.

Oh give me back that heart of mine,
that I may see its life fulfilled.
Thy tongue is soft,
thy journey long,
but give me back this heart of mine.

Olsen W. Potter