Some like Colombian
  Sleeping powder ....
  ounces up the nose.
  I prefer the effects
  of snorting hymns
  psalms and prose.

Others sniff crystal,
   ice, **** or glass
   I say poems are
   a narcotic of
   a much higher class.

Still others ride the
    horse talk smack or
   Stick tar. The dens
    that I frequent
    offer verses
    in their bar.

Every couple of days.
She comes around.
She claims to not like me.
She looks the other way.
When she needs me
She knows where to find me.
Reaching with open arms.
When no one is around she professes her love.
There is no other.
She breaks my heart.
The start of another week.
She claims to not like me.
She calls late night.
Apologizing for what she's done.
I never felt so bad.
It's coming to an end.
In another couple of days.
Things'll be back the same.
The same old same old.
Both our selfish ways.
She knows where to find me.
I have no clue where she is

the flowers are growing,
the sun is starting to shine some more, so should you.

Where diamonds tumble down a mountain stream,
Heaven's torn asunder by an angel’s scream,
A poem to show her my love sublime,
Every word, every verse, every line, every rhyme.
But when I write it down it turns out like this,
Because really I just want her to show me her ****.

Our art teacher was called Mrs Knight,
Her hair gray, her classes filled with rainbows of light,
Her ******* the colour of stilton traced with a faint blue vein,
Her wrinkled ******* pierced and linked by a fine gold chain.