I just moved all of the good entries from my other diary to this one, so check them out if you haven't already read them.

A poem -

The heavens roar brutal threats
as God draws jagged lines across falling sheets
in disappearing ink.
The horizon billows smoke
like poker-night vets away from their wives
(cigar smells ruin warehouse wardrobes).
My window flickers in and out -
like a dying fluorescent bulb buzzing,
breathing its last in a forgotten school-boy hallway.
And listening is my contribution.
To receive the message
before the ink dries,
the bulb dies,
and ashtrays become urns.
The best things in life will always die young.