Allow me to tell you a short little story
Of a man from a distant land.
He had a name.
His name was Matt.
And this young man named Matt,
Also had a cat.

He was having a little chat
With his brother (quite a brat).
They spoke of this and that
Standing by the doormat.

Opened the door to his flat.
And within it, saw his cat,
Wearing a purple hat,
Whilst sitting on the mat.

"What is that?!"
Said Matt.
"Where on earth did you get that hat?"
But, of course the cat
Didn't answer that!

Would it be ok
To disappear away
Today?

Poems don't have to rhyme.
What a way to spend your time,
Constrained within a paradigm.
But, admittedly when they do,
They are quite sublime,
Giving each word a reverberating chime.

Writer's block
Is like a rock,
A door that's locked,
A brain out of stock.

The mind is a forest
Still with places where no one goes
It doesn't disclose the secrets no one knows

There is no line between poetry and prose.
Because poems don't have to rhyme.

Sea levels rise
And the cruel frigid waters
May one day flood the island of my mind

Her mind is loud with language never spoken
Peering into the world as it swims through its fishbowl
With a gleaming silver sword, she fights the monsters within
Brave enough to live life differently
She sets out on a voyage: an infinite quest for knowledge
Picking facts like flowers
And weaving them into her tapestry of understanding
Her only true ally is herself
She is independent, invincible
Crying tears than aren’t hers: always emotionless
Mysterious to even herself
And as quickly as she came, she will go
She sees things differently
Understands how everything functions together
How everything is everything
How relative it all is
She is the universe, we all are
And when she dies, she will continue to exist