When i met her, she was so afraid of this life and needed someone. like all this worlds cruelness had caused her being to come undone.
In our start, it seemed so perfect, our future right there to see. I thought we'd be forever, in love and live happily.
but then she started changing, taking me for granted, like somehow her heart and love for me had been transplanted.
I have no idea how or why this happened, all i know now is my heart is flattened, her love for me is gone. and all people tell me to do is move on
my love for her just wont go, I just don't see how it could, most people's logic of love must be very misunderstood.
For if someone you love was to just stop loving you. I'm sure you wouldn't know what to do, your love for them will just stay, causing you pain every single day. all your emotions just black. because you want that connection back. knowing no matter what you do, she will never again be in love with you.
I was a fool to keep in touch, it caused me to hurt too god damned much, to watch her fall in love with someone else, It made me want to kill myself, so nearly two years later, i thought i would have grown to hate her, but no I still love her to this day, and my heart will forever stay this way, destined to be on my own. for she is the only love, I have ever known.
The Island Moorea,
In the heat, the sun,
The rhythm of my footfalls
crunching loose gravel road,
The swish of pack swaying
in consort to my measured pace.
Breeze pushing branches of Palm,
Ocean waves breeching shore line long.
Island vehicles passing, occupant's laughing,
a man laboring under large pack, alone walking,
Who could have been freely riding.
Something unthinkable to Island Folk,
in hot tropical places.
Passed along the way several humble homes,
Greetings exchanged with smiling people there.
Not long afterwards, new sound approaching,
crunching gravel, rolling up behind me.
A lovely young girl, perhaps still a teen,
long brown naked legs peddling a bike.
Hair jet black, long to her waist, wearing
a sarong, split up the side,
Shoulders bare and brown.
Dark eyes of wonder, sparkling of youth.
A radiant smile adorning her splendid face.
We went for a time at my even pace,
looking and smiling each in our place.
"Hello there" I said, she giggled, beamed
even bigger. Perfect teeth displayed.
"Why you walk?" She asked in puzzlement.
"To get to where I'm going". I replied
This response producing a pleasant laugh
from the girl. In which I too joined in.
"You go One Chicken?" She asked
I stopped then and turned to her.
"Where is One Chicken?" I questioned
with a grin.
She raised her graceful arm,
one finger pointing up the road.
"One Chicken there." she informed.
It was a store/bar, sort of place,
In the very midst of nowhere.
Indeed more than merely one chicken roamed,
Many chickens were and a pig or two, as well.
All mingling free and doing their thing.
We entered from out of the bright daylight,
into the deepest of darks,
Like in a movie theater you arriving late.
Eyes adjusting slowly to what lay ahead.
A few Island Beers later,
I had acquired several new friends,
The girl my invitation to the party of
already happy people a little drunk on beer.
The Music was mostly of French persuasion,
With a bit of Bob Dylan thrown in.
The Beatles also had a tune or two.
The Liverpool beat resounding down Tahiti way.
Before the light did fail, I shouldered my pack
and walked some distance from Chickens and Pigs.
Found the beach, hung my Hammock for the night.
Built a small fire and opened a can of Spam.
She appeared again about ten,
looking beautiful in the new moon light.
She had washed her hair,
still damp and smelled fresh of Lilacs,
Or some such aromatic scent.
We did not speak, no words were needed,
Made love on the sand, 'till the retreat of the
tide and sand crabs did come out, in their
eerie numbers, to eat what was at hand.
I suppose even us if we let them.
We retired then both to my hammock,
A pretty neat trick if you can swing it.
And we did.
She was so child like and yet,
very much a woman grown.
There was no pretense shown,
no false inhibitions rendered.
These were not limitations of her culture.
A people that live by their emotional impulses.
An open and free spirited people living
passionately within each minute.
It all felt more akin to a dream than real,
All around me there was beauty,
Loving and being loved without hurry,
Free of guilt or even a single expectation.
Living in that wondrous moment,
of uncomplicated human splendor.
Like some Garden of Eden surrender.
In the morning we swam in the sea,
frolicked like kids having a day at the beach.
Made love in the sand, I dozed in the sun.
Upon my awaking she was gone.
I waited an hour or two, packed up my camp,
shouldered my load and returned to the road.
A few minutes later, again I heard the now
familiar crunch of rubber tires,
rolling road surface and there she was,
a straw basket in her Bike's basket,
A huge smile on her unforgettable beautiful face.
We sat in a grove of trees,
among birds singing, insight of the sea,
Upon a Palm log and ate fresh bread and
fruit, drank strong black coffee (French Roast
I presume,) nibbling some marvelous cheese.
We tried to talk, but she understood little of
what I tried to say, my French was nearly
nonexistent, only adding to confusions sake .
She leaned her head on my shoulder,
the way lover's do and tenderly held
my hand within her two,
As if not wanting to let go,
Those gestures said all there was to say,
And we savored each silent moment.
We parted there, she on blue, rusty bike
and me on "shanks mare",
Off in two different directions,
Each out into the depths of our own lives,
Gone just like that. . . And yet,
Indelible, never to be forgotten or replaced.
Moorea do yet visit me, in dreams as real as can be. She never
grows old, nor does the beauty we shared for that one brief moment
in time immortal.
Someplace among the Islands of Tahiti there is a woman in her late fifties,
most likely a Mother, even by now a Grandmother. I hope she recalls as
fondly the American blond man with the big Orange Backpack, that in 1972
she meet upon the road, near "One Chicken" and loved freely and completely
for two days and a night, as that man does so fondly remember her.
I'm no poet, you all are poets. I'm just an old guy with memories and
little stories to tell. Thanks for letting me share.
Because of that moment, you were led here,
If that had not happened, this wouldn't be
Everything happens, making other things clear
Just never woulda guessed that you'd be so important to me
Simple little actions, fingertip movements, linked us into conversation
An open bridge was built that night for our souls to travel across freely
Emotionally jumped into each others' soulful arms, without hesitation
Each message read was like a piece of our heart that we were inadvertently stealing
Every time your face popped up on my screen,
My heart would nearly skip a beat
Right now, many miles lay inbetween
But in roughly two weeks our bodies will finally meet.
Already in you I've let myself be vulnerable, comfortably
The pictures we paint with words depict something I can really see
I feel each slightest touch as if you were here enveloped in me, effortlessly
We've already raised each others' spirits and expanded frequencies
I think about you being here, or me there, frequently.
Thinking of hugging you instills a kind of peace in me,
Call it tranquility...simple pleasantries..call it anything..
~So long as it involves love~
You say I've done so much for you
But words are never enough.
Just symbols, to represent, stuff
Independent to the perspective
I just hope I symbolized meaning that was effective
How much I care.. I really meant it
Because if I didn't mean the content, I wouldn't have sent it
Hearts on the sleeves with arms extended
For any wound in your soul I wanna mend it.
Anything on your mind you can come to me and vent it.
I at least have a little bit of time left, I wanna come to you and spend it.
We're gonna have to take advantage of time spent, so to not regret it
Already deep within me you are embedded,
Talked so much in a short period, just know everything was true when I said it
Just as it is in the current, riding waves of light that'll promise us at least one night.
Frigid, snowy weather,
yet warm together~
It's our endeavor to better ourselves,
And I'll always be there for you when you need help.
I tend to move in stealth, but I make myself known.
My daydreams, embraced by you feels so at home.
If you're ever down, feeling alone
I'm here, pick up the phone, no matter the time zone
I'll send my electrified vibes flying through the air faster than a drone
some say it's tossed around too much,
But I say too little
They put rules and complications on it,
trying to find an answer to the riddle
I told you I could say it to strangers
But it's hard, romantically speaking,
as if there's impending danger.
But if the feeling's true we shouldn't waiver
For there's no guaranteeing there'll be a later
Even though right now I'm feeling blue,
I have nothing but love for you,
You make me think of brighter colors
Meshing energies like long lost lovers
I. I thought you were her world;
Her paperback novel
She could ponder quotes in
And crack the spine of.
But you’ve now got police orders against you
And the pain of missing you
Seers the seams of her striped-sweater heart
And though you’re trying to get into Green and Ginsberg,
She can’t see what the big deal is.
You were the Holden Caulfield
To her Jane Gallagher
But Holden never took Phoebe
To the mattress so
I guess that makes the two of you
Sid and Nancy
II. I suppose she never believed you
When you told her that you were an alcoholic.
Because alcohol burns
And though you lit her fire,
You couldn’t keep it burning.
You told her that you didn’t read
And she should have
Backed away then.
But she didn't.
Because you played accordion
And dressed like Gatsby
And she adored that for a good while.
Until you told her that you despised the Rolling Stones
And may have committed a murder.
Even then she did not back away
Because you bought her cigarettes
And hit on other girls
While she waited for you
To give her the boot.
III. She liked your accent
But it was just a sweet, endearing cover up
For a mind as empty as a gypsy’s wallet
And a rich man’s soul.
IV. You liked to give her drags
Off your E-cigarette
Because it tasted like cherry Pez
And you wanted her to see
Or rather, taste,
Kissing you was like magic
You moved on to an older broad.
Her lips met yours
You tasted like heavy booze
And she was too desperate and twisted
To really give much of a damn.
So she accepted it
And moved on.
Because you called her pretty
And made out with her in the forest,
Denim scratching denim,
Hearts hurting hearts.
VI. She didn’t know you were homeless.
Maybe she did
But she didn’t accept it.
Like an elderly doesn’t accept death at first
And attempts to bargain.
You smelled horrible…
She believed it to be a natural thing.
But you were neglecting your hygiene and with that,
Her as well.
And the only thing you cared more for than sex
Was the Sex Pistols.
VII. You asked her to take off her glasses one day
And with one look of her freckled,
Pimple-shell ridden face,
You told her she looked like Ramona Flowers
And upon googling who that was,
She nearly crapped herself in glee.
She should have taken it as a sign
When you began to find
And tiny reason to touch her in as playful a way you could.
Through tiny nudges
She should have seen the possibility of romance blossoming.
But you were 29
And she, 17.
Twelve years, practically
Between the two of you.
But your undivided ideals
Brought you only closer together.
You were an English education major,
With a III mark after your name
And Megaman on your walls.
She took one look
At the astounding possibilities,
Drew a breath and fell in love with
Every little thing about you.
Unnoticeable thing about you,
From the scar
Stretching down your spine
To the scruff on your chin…
Deeper in love with you
Than she ever had before.
And she saw a dream,
That came in on a hot summer day
With Taco Bell
She looked at me with cold, black eyes,
Through spec's two inches thick
And asked what I did for Summer,
And I knew it was a trick.
Teachers do that to the kids
Who have to go to class.
So, when she asked again, I said,
"No thanks. I think I'll pass."
"Pass what?" She asked, her eyes like slits
As dark as eyes can be.
"What did you do all summer long?
Just sit at home and watch TV"
"But you're such an intelligent boy,
You should have read a book or two.
I'd have hoped you would have gone somewhere,
Like perhaps the city zoo."
"Or played softball in the local park
With the other kids in town.
It's so sad to see someone just sit at home
When there's so much to do around."
I chewed my lip and looked around.
Was I the only one
Who thought this was one of the
Dumbest things we've ever done?
I shook my head and said,
"I'm really not supposed to tell.
My Uncle Nibb stopped on by
On his way to St. Carmel.
"He was on a secret mission,
For Chef Utterbutterbanks.
And we had the best time ever.
And I forgot to tell him thanks."
But she did not believe me.
She did not believe me one small bit.
She folded her arms and tapped her shoe
And said "We'd love to hear about it..."
Yeah, it was a trap. A big one too!
The biggest trap of all.
She looked at me with her thin, black eyes,
And I felt one half inch tall.
"Come on. Come on. Out with it, boy!
We do not have all day.
Your Uncle came and got you.
What did you do while you were away?"
"First we..." was what came out first.
And my Teacher was not pleased.
Because after that the words
Just seemed to flow with super ease.
I said, "First we went to Switzerland,
Where we tobogganed down a hill.
We ate pizza on the Matterhorn,
And stayed there all day, until
Eleven hundred Police showed up
And we had to get away!
But Uncle Nibb knew what to do,
I watched him good that day.
He has a friend from Portugal
Who owns a zeppelin.
And he picked us up in one quick swoop.
And we flew away, and then...
We went swimming in the Amazon.
We played tennis with a Gnome.
And I'd have had much more to show you
If they had let me bring him home.
When we went to Istanbul
I had my fortune read.
You'd have really been quite impressed
With what the Gypsy said.
In China we had ice cream rice,
Which is better than you'd think.
Though I couldn't find the ice cream,
And all the rice was pink.
We finally got to Paris
At about the noonish hour
And tossed brand new copper pennies
From something called the Eiffel Tower.
We watched the sunset set in India,
Where we saw the Taj Mahal.
It was the biggest mahal I've ever seen,
Almost three billion taj's tall!"
My Teacher shook her head at this.
She was not very happy.
I'd have to think up something fast,
And it better be snappy.
"But I'm just guessing, you know,
Because I've seen it in the books.
But those pictures that they show you
Are nothing like it really looks!"
"We joined a caravan in Egypt
Where we traveled through the night,
And Uncle Nibb explained the mystery
Of nearly every star in sight."
"And when we finally reached St. Carmel,
We were tuckered out a spell.
Uncle Nibb picked up the spices
That Chef Utterbutterbanks knew so well."
"He brought us home last Tuesday
And we slept till Wednesday night.
It was the funnest time I've ever had.
Even Dad says it was all right."
My Teacher scowled a triple scowl,
And shook her boney head.
"I am going to speak with your parents!"
Were the last words to me she said.
I was sent home very early.
My Teacher said I'd told a fib.
"She didn't believe a word I said."
I told my Uncle Nibb.
My Uncle Nibb just grinned, then laughed.
He was gone most of the day.
When he got back he punched my arm
And said, "Go on out and play."
When I went back to school the next day
My Teacher was very nice.
She told the class there really is
Such a thing as Ice Cream Rice.
She also said that everything
That I told to them was true.
Except the part about the Gnome,
But that was okay too.
Then she asked me about Istanbul
Where I had my fortune read,
She was rather curious
With what the Gypsy said.
I shrugged that shrug I always shrug,
Kicked my heels hard at the floor.
"She said my future shined a shine
She'd never seen before."
"She named adventures that would seek me out,
Described the wonders I would see.
She just went on and on about
Those things she saw for me."
And my Teacher seemed quite satisfied,
She grinned a grin that opened wide,
And beamed just like a skittle pin,
About this tale I'd knew I'd never ever
Ever tell again.
Copyright © 2001 Richard D. Remler
"Life is uncharted territory. It reveals its
story one moment at a time."
-Leo F. Buscaglia
I risk hurt nearly every day
my anxiety is at the all time limit
I risk all and suffer for my friends
all for my brothers and sisters
But now I am feeling spent
I'm feeling blooded and broken
I have to stand proud
no matter the odds, and fight my ground
I am one of the compassionate kind
yet my reward is grief and strife
I am traumatized and hollow
yet I still bloody stand
This game of Russian Roulette
the choices I have made
with honest heart and good intention
are now mine to deal with, with honour
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
My baby bought me flowers.
They were terrific.
As terrific as virtual 'Triffids'.
My love, such beautiful flowers.
He thought he could eat me.
He said he loved me so.
Next thing that I knew.
I was his plant food.
A little fertile fertilizer.
Fed to those roses nearly blue.
Closer I went.
Moved up to study those passion flowers.
Up close and personal.
So wanted to smell those roses of lilac.
As lilac roses meant true love.
The one I thought I'd found.
That wouldn't break my heart again.
Instead that rose it bit my nose.
Gave me loads more pain.
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
there was little pig a happy chap was he
it was nearly christmas so he bought a tree
filled it up with baubles and lights so very bright
to make it nice and cheerful on a christmas night
then he got some presents to place around the tree
he was really happy as happy as can be
then called all his friends to see what he had done
they all got together to have some christmas fun
A Self Portrait
I Stayed Honest
“I am a creature of grief and dust and bitter longings.”
-George R.R. Martin
I’m the explosion and throwing things when I fight with my mom about money or what is or is not appropriate to bring up in front of her parents.
“You’re not the only who misses him!” Screaming was the only way to get through to my mother when my dad was deployed. It was like she entered this other world that was nearly impossible to pierce, even by the people who needed her most—her three children. She was a strong woman when she left the house, but being in her living room without her best friend, sleeping every night without her husband, it took a toll on her as a human. When my dad was gone there was no music allowed in the house, because it made her cry; same with movies and TV, even board games. Joy of that nature had to be hidden away in our bedrooms. Having friends over was almost always out of the question. That held true even when my dad was home, because he finally was, it was ridiculous to want to interrupt the little time we had with him. I remember distinctly a night toward the end of my freshman year of high school. My mother, two sisters and I were sitting in the living room talking. As it often did, the conversation turned to my dad. Mom’s eyes started getting watery; she talked about how difficult things were with him being gone, and with money being tight because of the move and the new house and school uniforms and supplies and Amber starting college. I’m still not sure why I was so upset by it, her concerns were legitimate. Maybe I was angry that she was telling us this in the first place. I was fifteen, I wanted to worry about military ball and boys and school, not having to eat stir fry and beans and rice for the next seven months because it was the only thing we could afford. I didn’t want to consider the hours Amber worked at Johnny’s or the pizzas she purposely messed up so she could take them home to feed us. I threw down the pillow I’d been clutching and yelled viciously through my sobs the only thing that made sense at the time, “Would you just shut up?! You’re not the only one that misses him you know!” I didn’t take the time to look at their faces, I just went to my room, locked the door, and laid face down in my bed to cry. She came by later, knocked, but let herself in with a barbecue skewer. I think she apologized the way a parent always does when a child lashes out wrongly, but with understandable or even pitiable emotion.
A few years ago I realized my sexuality was not what my parents considered normal. I never really told them, figured I’d just leave it be until I started a serious relationship with a girl. Then, a few weeks ago, I was telling my mom a story about how my (female) best friend and I pretend to be dating to ward off annoyingly persistent boys.
My mother warned me, “You should be careful Emily; people are going to think wrongly of you.”
I was taken aback, “Mom, you know I don’t care what people think about me right? And… what’s wrong with dating a girl?”
She sighed. She knows I’m a huge advocate for equal rights, “Not everyone is as liberal as you are Emily. People aren’t always kind and accepting. I’d hate for them to think you were something you’re not and do something.”
I wanted to lose my mind. “Mom… you know I’m not straight right?” The silence on the other end was deafening.
She said something about her phone beeping and not hearing what I had said. I repeated myself. “You know I’m not straight right?”
“What are you then?” She asked, confused. I’d been with guys all through high school.
“Well, I identify mostly with pansexuality. It means I’m gender blind, I experience attraction based on looks, intelligence, whether a person makes me laugh or not as opposed to being limited to one gender.”
“So you’re bi?” She asked.
I recited my well rehearsed explanation. “No. I’m pan. Bi means two, pan means all. There are more than two genders.”
My dad said something in the background and my mother responded, “Oh just the fact that your daughter likes boys and girls.”
I remember putting my head in my hands at this point, just silently waiting for her to say something to me so I could end the conversation.
“Emily, could you just not bring this up ever again, especially in front of my parents?”
I’m the falling for someone who seems to want me too, when I’m already committed to another.
The distance between the Francis townhouses and the rest of campus may not seem like much, but combined with the distance between a second year undergrad and a graduate student, a long distance relationship of sorts is created. Said grad student may be absolutely perfect in every way you’ve thought of, but if he cannot grant you the attention during the week that a new relationship requires, you start to feel like a booty call. Before you clarify your exclusivity, you flirt like mad with the people who can grant you the attention you seek, because what’s the harm? But, even after you clarify if, you flirt like mad with those around you because, how will he ever find out and it’s not like you’re actually doing anything? You’re just trying to get the attention you require as a needy human being, that’s not a sin. But… another person comes along and they’re wonderful. They’re just as fantastic and understanding as the grad student, except they’re a senior and their townhouse is open to you during the week and the attention they give you is innocent but overflowing. What more could you want? When you start falling for the senior… what can you say to the grad student? Then, when the attention from the senior grows less innocent and you think less and less of the grad student when the senior is looking at you from across the table or helping you with your poetry, you realize you and the grad student were doomed from the start. Are you a terrible person? You tell your roommate you are every single week night you come home from “harmless” cuddling with the senior and every single weekend morning you come home from snogging the grad student. She tells you you’re just human.
I’m the two ales, three shots and half a bottle of wine later, declaring my love and sobbing about my past into a shoulder.
This past midterm break was the most story-book-like episode I’ve ever lived. I had met someone almost exactly a month before. Everything about him was perfect. We got along so freakishly well and were compatible in every way we had had time to discover. He was fiercely passionate and book smart, he cared about what I had to say. He was everything I’d been looking for in a companion. All his housemates were leaving for break, but he and I were staying. We spent the weekend in a hundred cliché romantic ways. We walked the river trail holding hands and talking about our lives, sat on benches cuddling and listening to the wind and the ducks. We stayed up all night watching movies and kissing. We also did a lot of not so cliché, but romantic things like eating pizza and watching cartoons naked. We ordered AJ’s and ate while drinking ales then finished the last few shots of someone’s liquor and then, because I had mentioned never having it before, he let me drink nearly an entire bottle of wine. We ended up on his couch, cuddling, but then I started talking. The alcohol had stolen my ability to shut up. I kept going on about my freshman year here at Bonas, about how terrible it was, how depressed I was, how many times I tried to off myself, and how I have a history of self harm. I started sobbing, he cried too, shared his secrets. Then I told him not to worry because he was loved, he said, “I love you too.” I had only meant it in a way like, God loves you, your parents, your friends, but I went with it. Why not?
I’m the stillness of not knowing what to do next.
This past weekend was the strangest I’ve ever lived. A boy at school, in my year, went missing Saturday morning after midnight. Found dead Sunday evening. The explosions death drops in our world have never landed so close to me before. I feel shell shocked. I wrote about it. I want to keep writing about it, but I feel like I’m not allowed to, like it isn’t my place. I don’t know. I’m sick with what I can only guess is grief, but it feels more like a poisonous concoction of many painful things locked in my intestines. I’m heavy with the news of him. I feel like I’m going to sink away at any minute. Everything feels like needles in the wound. The snow and the cold (loved parts of this time of year) make me wonder why he didn’t wear more than a sweatshirt, but how do I know if it would have mattered? I was out that night, well morning, Saturday, before two a.m. I was on the exact opposite side of campus though. We were walking to Walmart; I was beyond drunk and so elated. We rolled down the hill with the ST. BONAVENTURE bushes, got ourselves covered in mud. We sat at the bottom and laughed and laughed. We walked and discussed sex and books and plans for when we got back to campus within the hour. …He never made it back. And I wonder if he had plans. I wonder if his girlfriend had stayed in that night, if she was waiting for his return so they could screw, or cuddle, I didn’t know him, at least not well enough to know that. I wonder if he liked the cold and that’s why he was in a place where people couldn’t see him. The snow didn’t start until much later so others returning from parties would have seen if he was closer. Or maybe they did, maybe they thought nothing of a passed out drunk guy, isn’t that a normal thing in college? Maybe their veins were tricked warm from their strong drinks and they couldn’t imagine he was cold, they didn’t feel it, and there wasn’t even snow on the ground. Not yet. Maybe they thought it would be funny if he woke up outside. Or maybe the rumors are true. Maybe there was a fight earlier that night. Maybe he wasn’t even that drunk. Maybe some boy-men, foolishly angry, were trying to prove their false superiority. Maybe they didn’t know they’d hurt him so bad and that someone else would come along to help him. How can we ever know? I see nothing when I close my eyes except his. Looking, but not alive, his lids frozen open, his lips slightly parted, the cold paling his skin, fashioning him to look more ghost than human. I suffer in the fear that he died knowing he was going to, knowing he was alone. How afraid he must have been. How could he have known what was coming next? How can we go on living knowing his life was meaninglessly extinguished? He was undeserving of an end so lonely. I’m haunted by the image of him being trapped in that loneliness forever. I’m haunted by his face, he always seemed so happy, but don’t the dead always seem more shiny in our memories? Will he be remembered fairly or only as a good who died young? And the guilt of feeling that hurts me, eats at me, but the doubts are trying to kill me. What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to feel about this? I hardly knew him, am I allowed to feel so blindsided? Is this allowed to send me into the tailspin I feel I’m already lost in? If I fall back into the bad habits because of the weight of what’s in my head will anyone understand or will they shame me for “wanting attention?” If I cry often, because I will think of this often, will anyone be there to comfort me? Is it selfish to ask for these things? Is it wrong to have partied Friday and Saturday because I didn’t know Sunday would pack such a punch? Is it valid to be distraught by the death of someone less than even an acquaintance? It’s just that… he was nineteen.
Assignment: Six page self portrait.
there was a little snowman he was very bold
not like all the others he always felt the cold
the snowman built a fire so he could feel some heat
built it very carefully and made it very neat
as the fire burned and it began to glow
now he was getting warm and the cold began to go
snowman fell asleep by the fireside
forgot about the cold that he felt inside
he began to melt while he was in his sleep
and woke as a puddle nearly to feet deep