Lies, Wishes, Wanting, Memories.
That's what most of my poetry is.
I lost that "perfect boy" long ago.
I have let go and moved on.
So just know not all what I write is truth.
Some is just memories,
Things I wish/want to come true again.
Even though I am happy and content with my life now.
Sometimes all it is are words
What shall I write about now.
Now that I refuse to write about you.
Now that I don't want to write about you.
I do still want to write about you.
I still have things I could be writing about.
But if I continue...
I know it would stop me,
from moving on.
And that's all I want to do.
Is to move on.
So I have to stop.
I have to make this my last.
You're all I want in my life.
But I can't have you and I know that.
So I have to stop stressing and let go.
So I have one question,
One thing that I keep pondering...
What shall I write about now?!
Now that I refuse to write about you.
I mean I don't even know,
What I would write about anymore...
Besides that there's not that much,
At least anymore.
Now that you ignore me.
I just can't stop pondering...
What shall I write about now?
I love you.
I love the things you say.
I love the things you do.
I love you in every single way.
I love your hair.
I love your smile.
I love how you play fair.
I love how you make me stay a while.
I love your voice.
I love how you love food.
I love the face you make when making a choice.
I love you in any mood.
I love you top to bottom.
I love how you solve a problem.
I love the way you walk.
I love the way you talk.
I love how you write.
I love you, day and night.
I love the way you hold a pen.
I love you more, every now and then.
I love your taste.
I love how our memories don't get erased.
I love how you get me to do anything.
I love your rights, I love your wrongs, I love everything.
I love how you look out the window.
I love how you make sure I don't feel like a zero.
I love how you love Christmas.
I love you, can I get a witness?
I love how you can cook.
I love how you love books.
I love how you love your sister.
I love how you admit to being a sinner.
I love how you're so smart.
I love how you're good at art.
I love how I feel when I look at you.
I love you, I don't know what to do.
I love how you never really get mad.
I love how you smile even when you're sad.
I love the way you dance.
I love the fingers on your hands.
I love you even when you don't reply.
I love how you're always beautiful, even when you cry.
I love how you answer the phone.
I love you more than you will ever know.
I love the fact you're still reading my poem.
I love how my heart is what you've stolen.
I love how you're grinning at how I can't rhyme.
I love you, even if I know you'll never be mine.
First one I let in, taught me to love and lose
Bleed and bruise
Recover from the worst injuries
Last time I let her in
The second one was gentle and thin
Shallow though she was, it felt like a win
Gracious was her beauty, little was her mind
After all she only wanted to fill the void in
Third girl called me Addy, too
Loved to hold my gaze and touch our lips
Never would have lost her if not for the waves
Still reminisce our perfect days
Fourth knew me better than I did
Called me out when I thought within my emotions hid
Took me to a better place,
Led me to be a better man
The Fifth had mastered the arts
Was able to sing and write, she captured all men's hearts
Took a while to realize I wanted her too
Now we write together, in Love for good
Or maybe not, as is the nature of this life
One moment, happy
The next, the loss of your future wife
Clean your tears, wash your cheeks,
Welcome to the world of any other week
if you're writing the words
you're doing it wrong
you have to let the words write you
what switch might lay above me,
that I would write forever?
you're no stranger than me.
I'll convolute as long as I see,
with the sea- a shining quarter.
I'm in Heaven, now.
Don't bother searching,
we'll all drift well enough,
and breathe be-yond.
i ask what i have left
what am i good at?
and they say i’m a writer
i can write,
i can write a million miles.
but i don’t even liked to write anymore.
while I watch you sound asleep
I pray to God your soul to keep
with covers pulled tight 'neath your chin
still not sleepy I wonder when
the hands of the clock point 3 am
oh how I long for r e m
a nod, a yawn, anything 'ill do
just to lay snug next to you
so for now I write it true
this sleepy poem called, I love you
I have had it all wrong,
I wonder if my grandfather
thought that, when on a steamer
he arrived a dreamer
of moving west from Montreal
single trying to find a life, better,
opened and tasted peanut butter,
and never did ever eat that again,
I have had it wrong, all of it
He kept dreaming and trying,
took the train to the northern Alberta,
saw his dreams take shape as he built
homes for other dreamers,
he met his wife, but that is a poem for another story,
he was a pacifist, he did not support, killing another,
but he sure had a temper,
for a peaceful man, he decided to retire, and that
let him get old, I admire for what he stood for and sit at
a desk he built with my dad.
I still have had it all wrong.
The desk is nothing special
other than the hands and
knowledge that built it
and something a father and a son
did together, one of the last things
of each other, that
would be remembered, they worked well with their hands.
Both men were dreamers.
My dad had his dreams, he mostly kept to himself,
but you just knew that they were to do with
things outside of the house.
Oh don't misunderstand, he loved working with wood,
he knew firearms, he recieved a Medal for Military Merit,
for dedication above and beyond what a militiaman was
to do, he wasn't a pacifist, in many ways he was different
from his dad and so many more he was exactly the same.
Shame, I have had it all wrong.
I was not an A student, but Gee, I tried hard,
my potential was palpable we just needed to resuscitate it from time to time,
I joined the CAF, married and had three who have amazed me,
with their strong beliefs, so different from one another, see?
I have worked twenty jobs and not one among them defined as a career...
oh and yes, I have spent time in an unemployment line.
I am not a carpenter, like the other two could, my grandfather as a career
my dad took it on as a hobby, I am a pacifist, yes, but don't push to hard,
I might write you into a poem...
I have written so many serious and sombre pieces,
There is already so much sadness in the world,
If planet Earth could cry a tear, standby with the tissue,
I deal with my stuff in words, I try not to hang onto them,
Rather free them like birds, Ravens and Crows with Hummingbirds and Eagles,
My soul is sore and
Animus would rather soar,
so I pour the toxins from my mind, my skin, from my day
you already know I am not perfect I sin, from my way of life,
so I pour the garbage I live and beauty as I see
it is around me for you all to read, shame on me
I have had it all wrong.
I don't have to get it right, I must write.
What does it mean to write?
Are there fences?
Are there rules?
Is the clear blue sky the limit?
Is it endless or finite?
Should we follow a path?
Is it left?
Or is it right?
Do written words have restrictions?
Like arithmetic and math?
Do you have to be good?
If you are bad,
Should you quit?
Is there even fine a boundary?
Do we really think there should?
Are words upon a page,
A form of life?
Our hallowed kin?
Are the words that live within us,
Our own breath-restricting cage?