I am a mere puppet
A meagre tool to be controlled
To achieve what they covet
I must do as I told

I am a wounded bird
The wings that I am proud of
Forcefully ripped by their words
Broken by their abusive love

I am an innocent prisoner*
Heavily chained, both my hands and feet
Dripping bloods of red, you get the picture
Can’t escape, trapped by their deceit

I am without faults
But I am without goodness either
Perhaps
If you weren't so busy
Counting my mistakes
And regarding my shortcomings
Maybe, just maybe
You will never missed the chance
Of enjoying the best of me...

I am without flaws
But I am without beauty either
Perhaps
If you weren't so busy
Searching what I never had
For what I cannot give
Maybe, just maybe
You will never missed the chance
Of seeing what I am capable of...

I am without hate
But I am without love either
Perhaps
If you weren't so careless
Handling me at my worst
Appreciating me at my best
Maybe, just maybe
You will never missed
A promise of once in a lifetime love...

Tentpole, stature tall and strong and
Firmly placed between the thin sheets
Members of the boy scouts, boy clan
Flames extinguished, his body heats

At dawn it rises, makes me wake
******* for the fire he gathers
Morning wood, embers of the stakes
Soon home; disapproving Fathers

Morning **** calls, but we're busy
Pack our bags, get all the work done
Juice of life makes me quite dizzy
Mem'ries of our weekend of fun

I'll be dish and spoon to your spoon
Spend nights together o'er the moon

Nothing is not black
It has no colour.
The blackness of space is black
But nothing is nothing.
No light or dark,
No taste or smell
Or touch.

Nothing cannot know it is nothing
No more than we can know
When we are gone.

Our transient existence is a blessing
Here on Earth, beneath the Sun.
Sunshine shining, blindingly bright
Upon the foliage
Of Paradise bathed in light.

Paul Butters

Make your poems Memorable,
That’s what I say.
No need to be incredible,
Just let them play.

Read them with your inner voice,
Write them that way too.
Hear the music in those words,
This I’m telling You.

In ancient times these poems were songs,
Remembered off by heart.
At least you’d call them statements,
Knowledge to impart.

Iambic metre’s very common yes,
And so of course is rhyme:
To make these verses remembered
Through the course of time.

Yet verse is best as poetry,
Lyrical if you will.
We have to write with feeling,
And give the reader a thrill.

Paul Butters