My love, you are an agony
but for you
I would have been on the road
made the world my family

The sun and the moon you robbed
stars you made your countless eyes
but for you
I would have flown where eagles rise
made my home in the sky

My love, you are an agony
but for you
I would have gone down the flow
a speck of moonlight
in the sparkling shadows of night
hanging on a leaf like poetry!

A smile for a while
A grin for a time
A laugh, one chuckle
No money for a rhyme-----
D
O
W
N
B
  E
L
  O
W
A poet goes
Hoping to get just one
View---- a poet is born
By the millisecond
A window of
opportune.
Some poets dream
Of Mars
Some the stars, sun and moon.
Some are rich and some are poor-----
Some have houses
Yet no money for a bedroom door
Some poets write with pens
Others write with their teeth,
Other poet's write with pain and excite
Some poets write rapping streets
Some poets write of amor, some write of drug use
Of their future's in store.
Some poets write for fun and play
Some write of their deaths
Some in June and may
Some poet's change their lives
As others write sweet lullaby's
Some poets are me and you
The someone's are somebody's
That someone is you.

Mommy, did you know
That your little girl died at only twelve years old?
Her body remains
But there is no longer a soul
Someone had murdered her spirit
And it took quite the toll
But she'll never reveal it
Who had done it to her

Mommy, did you know
That even though your little girl is dead
She watches from her safe house
Where there is no pain and dread
She watches her shell of a body
With dull, impure eyes  
Walking around like a zombie
Searching for a reason to this life

Mommy, did you know
That your little girl loved you so much
That in order to save you from the pain   She took the fatal punch?

So the doctor said her foot
Was broken.
Yes, I like a woman tough,
But it's been two months
Since it started hurting.
Suppose few things are as
Subjective as pain.

I rub my right hand when it's
Cold. The one I crushed
Between two containers.
Crane driver was still
Drunk from breakfast;  
Suppose few things are as
Subjective as responsibility.

We're all scars. Broken bones
And bruised hearts.
Embarrasing memories and
Bitten bullets.
Walking on broken feet until
They heal.

Suppose few things are as
Subjective as
Growth.