I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)

It's that moment
when the pieces
of the puzzle
all combine.

And you see a
glorious picture
that you doubted
that you'd find.

And then after
when the pieces
are inspected
each with care.

You see purpose
and see meaning
each too valuable
to spare.

Don't be fooled by my complacent look
I'll take every word within this book
Give it new meaning, no, it took
Me minutes, or ten hours.
Don't be fooled by my resolve to do
What's not for me, what comes from you,
My mind has still not gone all through
And found reason in these flowers.
For I know I'm of an independent mind
And I know that if the mind is not aligned
With yours, I'll steer my own track down this crooked lane
Where all howl with their might and main
On how they're sitting in the rain
Because investigation, what's that?
Curiosity may have killed the cat,
But don't take food brought just like that
Not knowing what's in the caveat
May land you in the black hat.
And when will you know if you will be pulled out?
And when will you know, if you know, what format?
But, don't be fooled, I won't be sensible,
Sweet, right or comprehensible,
A position indefensible,
Yet infinitely more fun.
Don't be fooled, my reason's lock and key,
There's stumbles still in stock for me,
And alas, many more of these,
Will be some already done.
But I know I'm of an independent mind
And I know that if the mind is not aligned...

That the heart is troubled by the heart that is troubled
That is not your own heart’s troubles: the ecstasy doubled
And the room beats full of hearts, overbubbled
In the heat of the moment and the drama that’s cobbled
Together by them, of real sorrows that aren’t theirs to share,
But very much theirs to tear and wear and overstare,
Because the blood cares only as much to care
For the fizz of the moment, and it isn’t your hair
That is being torn; it isn’t your paean that is being sung -
It’s you caterwhauling it, as you will, lung and lung;
And deranging the song, like ten cats being hung
And their guts played alive, violins freshly strung…
But forgive me, I tell you – this is the horror
Of those who will stake in another girl’s drama.
It’s not a piece of your pie, and it isn’t mine either;
I just know what it’s like, so spare us the fever,
And spare me the fiver, ‘cos I’ll dish you no more
Than nothing and dagger looks: The heart still beats sore.

the leaves fall in fall
is it really that simple?
they change color too

I move the books along my table,
Till they are falling on the ground,
I like the sound.

Small red tablet
I am now drowsy

Small red tablet
I now forget *****

Small red tablet
I am now suddenly happy

Small red tablet
I now forgot what sorrow is