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)
Were you the one or one in five? Is it dead or still alive? Could I be six or even more? Could I be ten and you be four? Did I forget to carry one? Did I add numbers just for fun? Or multiply my feelings out? Or round down when you’d yell and shout? For I was never good at this. And all the signs they went amiss. For every answer every sum, I can’t erase my only one.