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The sun will come up tomorrow,
the flowers will grow in the spring,
May love abound in your life and
peace to your soul may it bring.
.

*If I were a poem
I’d ask you to fold me up
and put me in your pocket,
then at the end of the week,
toss me in the wash
with the rest of the clothes

And when you find me later,
smudged and smeared,
ripped and tattered into
little unrecognizable pieces,
don’t worry about it,
I was already like that
I have been notified that this poem was plagiarized and posted on Poetfreak by someone using the name Blurry Face. I can assure you, this is my poem.
the day
when even the not so faithful
were tempted to pray
for the health of the nation
my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.
© copyright

NOTE: i've noticed people sharing this to other sites without having spoken to me about it beforehand, I do not give permission for this and all poems are copyright, keep this in mind.

------------------------------------------------
my mother never actually said this to me, but i figure i'll probably end up saying it one day if i have children.

it's pessimistic yes, but i know there are exceptions. please don't take to heart. it's more a criticism of myself than all poets. :)
If you'd been here
When I was young,
You'd not forget
What we'd have done.

We'd climb roofs,
Jump in the river,
****** neighbour's pears,
Then skedaddle,
Laughing with sweat-matted hair,
Wiping off those grown-up cares.

We'd bumper-jump in four inch snow,
And never let our parents know.
Oh, such fun we two would do,
If I could stay as young as you.

We'd skate and bike,
Play street ball,
Act up in school,
Stand in the hall;
We'd hike with jars
Along country brooks,
Read and trade
Our comic books.
Lie in the sand,
Burn in the sun,
Forgetting it was time for home.
We'd never tire of our treats,
And often we'd forget to eat
Because we're having all our fun:
If you'd been here when I was young.

We'd play Tag and Red Rover,
Flags and Chase,
Then have sleep-overs.
We'd swap tomorrow
For daily pearls,
Then swap each other
For pretty girls.

We'd be up to our shenanigans,
Sleep the sleep,
Then start again.
This is the way
We'd have our fun,
If you'd been here
When I was young.

But now you're here,
And I'm much older,
The things we'd do
You'll do with others;
But when you need a  boost to climb,
This old man has a shoulder.
Yes,
I'll sure have lots of fun,
For you're here now.
That keeps me young.
For my new Grandson, Xavier (b. July 23rd.)
Thanks for all your readership and support. I hope you enjoyed the read as much as I enjoyed the write. Peace.
~~<3~~

I want to be your sun
the light of your day
I want to be your moon
the light of your night
I just want to be both
your sun and moon
greeting you with rays
of my glorious light

~~<3~~
You and me all the time
My skin  is now ready for your eyes
Not for a stranger in the night
I know you are waiting for a rhyme
Like a rainbow that's out of sight

I painted birds and  chickens on canvass
I know you'll remember this day
Spend time calculating the hues
To create a piece all the way

You may fall short of  time and chance
Sometimes you may pause and then hurry
But that's how we  create like we explode
Be obedient if you don't want to feel sorry.

-----

She's an artist. She paints.  She write songs,  poems and stories.  Even a stranger  could prove that. Her skin tattoos speak so well.  You can see flowers and animals on her arms,  neck and shoulder.  So funny that even chickens can be seen once you closely look at those marks.  

As a poet,  she mostly observe rhyme and meter.  She would always spend time calculating the syllables in a line.  She always remember her mentor's teachings even when writing short pieces. There was no moment that she's not obedient of the rules she had learned from him. She won't forget that anything should not be done in a hurry.  

She is an artist,  and her  creativity is like an emotion that is going to explode once properly set.
For the 10  Words I Give Contest...
The given words:
S K I N
S T R A N G E R
R H Y M E
C H I C K E N S
R E M E M B E R
C A L C U L A T I N G
S H O R T
H U R R Y
E X P L O D E
O B E D I E N T
Isn't it lovely
When pervy men
Pop up in your DM box
And try to make you feel
That you are a failure

Hmm
Someone's pen
Is thicker than his ****
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