Tricko's blog: "home"

well every one I just started colloge and I am finding that I do not have much free time. so this is to let everyone know I am well and I am thinking about you.(you know whom you are) Untill I get some extra time you will not see me about the site. Take care and may the fates be kind to you and yours. Tricko

Ladies and Gentalmen, I just thought I would get this off my chest as well as I know how. it would seem that there are many people that think you can't find either a real man or a real woman. It seems to me that evereyone is saying the same thing. What most people are negellecting to say it that all atraction starts at the physical level. I know it is very important to look past the shell and see the soul under the flesh. Perhaps it is all the head shrinker books I have been reading as of late. But one must always seem to work from the outside in. I find that I am single because I look to deep. I have been told if I lowered my mental standerds it would be easyer for me to find someone. Though I find that if I can't, fogive the image, roll over and talk to them ,about topics offten considered "deep", I have no interest. so if it is realy bothing some of you take a look in the mirror and find out why you alowe things to be the way they are. Now that I have borred you with my long windedness I will go beck to being the quiet observer. May the fates be kind to all. Tricko

wind in his hair, Throttle in his hand, He pushes his iron horse to the brink of exostion. The screaming of his heart Matching only the low howl of the wind. People mark his passing Only noting the mask of loneliness etched across his leathered face. No words come with their question Only a thundering silence with his presence. finding no peace he returns to the road. A man lost in an indifferent world. Some call him savage. some call him warrior. few call him friend. Patrick Maxey March 11, 2002.

well this is going to be a little intertaining for those that do not think males have a brain cell in there heads. but what the hell here we go at anyrate.*S* now ladies I enjoy the fact that you wish to show off your bodies. Now do not get me wrong I enjoy the beautie of the femail form. but I would realy like to see the faces of those bodies. I am strange that way....I am a ferm bealiver that the eyes are the door way to the soul...I know a very old saying. I wish to see your faces I guess that is all I am trying to say....bealive it or not I am more interested in the mind behind the eyes... thank you for letting me rant. Tricko

As I look across a smoky room a vission of raven hair. Eyes filled with a piercing blaze floating through the air. A specter of passion that taunts mortal men. Like ships on a stormy sea they crash on her shore. Only to find death at her feet. She is lust. She is passion. She is romance. she only has one name..... Siren Patrick maxey revised october 09, 2006.

As I gaze across a crowded room My eyes fall on a woman of myth and legend. A mane of shimmering coal and corn silk flows like a quiet river past elegant shoulders. Piercing eyes adorn the face of the goddess before me. Tearing through my very soul they hold the softest heart yet found. satin lips call to me for the kiss that captures gods. Can I, a mere man, withstand such a creature? when all I wish to do is give myself to her. Patrick Maxey Revised December 7, 2002

Her piercing gave makes me blush. A main of silk calls for my touch. Satin lips taught me with kisses I crave, The simplest touch sets my soul ablaze. Her beauty is only machted by the first rays of dawn. The power of venus flows through her veins. Mortal man enthralled make offerings to the goddes, Realizing to late they have no wings to soar. for she is an Angel Unattainable by earthbound men. Patrick maxey december 2, 2002

standing in a valley hidden from mortal view, surrounded by the mist of legend. the prying eyes of man wander here not. my mind slips to a time when man roamed free. visions of ancient battles flood the imagination. silence my only companion, i hear the rumbling of a distant storm. the mist swells, buckles, churning, as if I were in the mist of a witches cauldron. bursting forth, the thunder of hooves, flagging tails, flaming manes. I stand in the middle of the charging herd. disappearing as quickly as a whisper in the wind, I am left alone with my thoughts. many call this fantasy. I call it home. Patrick Maxey December8,2002