His anger boils over in rage.
How can she do this at this stage?
She gets the house, the car,
He’s left wishing on his lonely star.

He works two, three, four jobs
To pay Peter, who robs Paul.
She works one, time and again
Refusing to flex, refusing to bend.

Mow the lawn every weekend
Not a hand would she lend
Jus’ to keep up appearances.
Manicured lawn, impeccable references.

So why does she ask these things?
Because happiness to her it does bring.
And now, he is left out in the bitter cold
Feeling abandoned, unloved and so old.

Her Picture

He carries her picture in his wallet
Lest her face, he should forget
From time to time, he’ll pull it out
Recall what love was all about.

What was there, is suddenly gone
Like sunshine, dusk to dawn
And he doesn’t know what he did
What was wrong, how he slid.

Jus’ a former shadow of himself
Slowly decaying, losing his breath
He does not wish to live any longer
His hearts true hope, gone from there.

His soul is so darkened by despair
He no longer cares to have a care
She has broken his living, loving will
Leaving him nothing, death will fulfill.


Those around him have said again,
“Well, if you had not screwed around.”
He thinks, “Screwed around? But when?”
That they think this brings him down.

No wonder his wife thinks the same way!
If his coworkers have concluded this
The thoughts, their words lead to dismay
It’s goodbye to marriage with a sudden kiss.

Where the hell did he go wrong, he wonders.
Reflecting back on the total sum of his life
He can clearly see the mistakes, the blunders
That led to goodbye from his loving wife.

“If God knew this,” he asks no one there,
“Why did he let me waste so much time?”
Of course, again, no answer from anywhere.
Appearances now appear to be his crime.

Human Clay

The last thing he wants to be is angry
At the woman, his wife, that he loves
But every twist, turn, emotions betray
Realizing with the destructive outcome.

Why will she not talk about her feeling?
It leaves him lost, alone in a dense fog,
Where do broken hearts begin healing?
The silence, distractive and destructive.

She has placed him in a holding pattern,
Like a prisoner, death row’s final night,
Hanging in the wind, twist and to turn.
Death would be the welcomed companion.

Anger leads to fiery hate in human clay.
The last thing he wants is to feel angry,
But that is how he lives each lonely day,
And his soul screams to lash out at her.

Night-time Comes

Night-time comes, I grow afraid.
Worry climbs in bed like a lover.
To get away, he would gladly trade
Every ounce of energy he has.

It pushes its way against the skin,
Making itself comfortable next to him,
Sleeping where once love had been,
Crowding for comfort of the mattress.

Soon self-doubt climbs in on the top,
Followed by anger and resentment.
Two feelings he fights to make stop.
They lay, tossed and unslept in bed.

Unwilling to struggle come the morn,
Drifting uneasily into worthless sleep,
Waking with emotions spent, mind torn.
Night-time comes and I grow afraid.

Set Free

There is little more room than a cell,
Personal purgatory, a heartbreak hell.
Night has fallen jus’ beyond the door,
Daylight gone, evening sun no more.

The bare-naked bulb casts a shadow,
Beating down a figure beyond its glow.
His long form, a hulk of unhappiness,
Stirs in the area where he must dress.

Personal effects lay about this place,
Filling in blanks, covering the space.
Still, he knows it ain’t home,
Not his tree and not his loam.

Here there is little more than survival.
A place where pain becomes delightful.
Where a broken heart lives in misery,
And only the criminals are set free.