Scott is a local Redondo Beach poet who hangs at Insomniac South many evenings and performs regularly. He is known for his gentle and intimate verse. If you like Scott's work, come see and listen to his readings some evening. If you would like copies of Scott's poetry please send $5.00 to Scott Smith, 407 E. Cloverbrook Ave, Carson, California 90745

Copyright 1995 by Scott Smith. All rights reserved without limitation. Under copyright laws, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or in any means, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

Simple interpretations,
of fine legs and soft skin,
indulging in thoughts,
without words,
feeling without touch,
minds to coincide and give to each,
nothing but goodbyes,
with out a soul.

There were scented flowers
at each door and window, an afgan
covered couch, and a marble table in the front,
a breeze that traveled from inbetween each
entrance way.

All silence, just thoughts, nothing
spoken to nor from who ever dwelled inside
a hollowed out madness, carefully designed
an outlined ending

Books ranging from poetry to english
literature. A asylum in white, remembering
an insane ending, to a rude awakening in

Rain, no rain almost never, just dry
hot coffee or tea, unsweetened no cream.

So scattered about my mind, my pages
the floor, pages of written scriptures, poems
dreams and pictures of dead people. Memories
of girls, some women not many, just ran
wild in my bed, my mind, my pages, left
to the sheets, fragrances all different never
the same.

Insanity came quiick over riding the simple
life of family, children and god. My beliefs
unassure, never definate always changing, filled
closets with bones along time ago.

With a virgin that slep beside, could
never gain the nerve to take such a loved
treasure, she seemed shy and untouched,
quiet, just read my pages attempting an
order that never seemd to come.

With her kisses wet and desirable,
I couldn't help from just watching her
move from room to room on a search to
find a soul to obtain and hold.

Molded dreams from childrens books
read in her younger years. Together we
lied on the floor, she would talk of stories
told, with tears that fell upon my arm, as
I held on. then slept for hours and hours,
then dreams, so many dreams she would
remember so eager to tell, as the sun rose
from the opening of her eyes, out between
her lips and thighs. Awakining with a kiss
and a smile, became my pages she'd attempt
to oraganize.

Then deadening came, the breeze stopped
then came the rains that fell violently, she
screamed, "the thunder tears me inside", she
gripped me tight, "I'm scared," she screamed.
"It's a bad dream, thats all just a bad dream."
she was never the same, she came to me telling
me to take her, take all of her, "It's all
yours, from your pages. I've become what I
was searching for, I'm your soul."" I couldn't
I can't go back. After, I slept and awakin, to
no lips, no thighs, my pagess neatly stacked
numbered in books, my soul I'm done.

Of eyes to look to,
of minds to dwell within,
of soft skin to touch,
caressing to such extent,
feeling the warmth,
of each lip I kiss,
I miss such moments past,
with love that sat to spoil,
to end at any time,
with you that stood beside,
not to speak but healed such spoiled thoughts,
within this soul of mine,
I die taking these thoughts,
with only pain to leave you with,
nothing of the sort.
To leave you with something,BR> to take from no one,
to leave nothing,
I've left, but have gone no where,
I felt something, I don't know.
I see, hear, feel, taste, nothing.
I've died.

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