My friends

My friends are my friends, who capture me

In the worst of my days, and ignore my failed

Attempts at ignoring, my friend, who understand

I am crazy, yet erratic, sprinkled with....crazy

I write prose these days, with a little rhyme flow

and a touch of arabic singing, to the top of my rose

My friends I say...how endless your patience in the gardens

In which flowers sway, and wait for me to blossom again

When I have failed myself, in many failed ways, and give

My only gift, tempered not in sand, but steal iron forges

I used to be a potter and used clay, but I find these days

The blackness of hand, makes me a smith of the sword

The sword of the tongue which speaks across all lands

If you are lucky, You understand my fault of parnoid thought

and recountless remarks, that only scream, I love you more

Than you could imagine, its just this gift that they call it

Is really a curse, that seperates my mind at times from peace

Like placing mud together dirt, and the worms that most fear

Only I, at times I feel steer them clear, and when I per chance

Finding a beatle or scarab, I bless it the most and observe how it

Too traveresed and made it to this tavern, my friends upon friends

I hold you most dear, if it weren't for my paranoid thought racing

I would keep you more near, yet truth in the lies which keeps

All alive, reminds me these are your friends amoung friends

If they'd die for you, what makes it so you, wouldn't die too, for them

Never too soon, one waits, and comes Peace, graces upon mind, truth.

Christopher Baird 2011 ©