i could try to write and speak French like Wallace Stevens did, but it might not sound like me
i could try to write and live in Camden like Walt Whitman did, but it might not sound like me
i could try to write and beat my wife like Charles Bukowski did, but it might not sound like me
i could try to write and drink like Ernest Hemingway did, but it might not sound like me
i could write like anyone but i have to write for me
i can only write the things i feel
or experienced first hand
and if my written words sound like someone else you know
it might be because they felt it too
and wrote it down
because they had to
because i have to

I turn my face and look away,
I hold my tears till they are gone
The pain helps me realize that
Falling in love makes me a pawn.

I write about you
All the time
I wish you'd read it
Just to see how much I care
But at the same time
I would be so terrified
That you
The one and only
My dream girl
My beautiful darling
Would deny me

Tomorrow the sun will rise
just as it has
Oh so many times
but the storm will run its course tonight
words as rain, more like tears of pain
and it just so happens that she just might....
*dance in the dampness of her heartstorm with delight.