The lily has a smooth stalk,
  Will never hurt your hand;
But the rose upon her brier
  Is lady of the land.

There's sweetness in an apple tree,
  And profit in the corn;
But lady of all beauty
  Is a rose upon a thorn.

When with moss and honey
  She tips her bending brier,
And half unfolds her glowing heart,
  She sets the world on fire.

I feel night whispering  
My hot bath looses it's heat slowly
My tea waits patiently
I can't sleep
There is nothing more I need, only rest
My spirit won't let me
I hear it's whining
A toddler in full tantrum yelling, "I'm hungry, feed me"
There is no food to satisfy the hunger
It still wants everything  
Taming the feast
A tug of war with my spirit and rationality  
Circumstances are an excuse
I'm to tired to argue
Please god, let me sleep
I will try to have courage in the morning
Tonight let me be

The first eye opening
A bright room
People crying
Our first moment seems to be love

Love
Butterflies out of control nausea
Heart deep fluttering
You need to sit your *** down kind of feeling

Love
Do we stop?
Stop loving?
Stop living?
What happens when the mind mishapes, decays?
Standing hand in hand in the middle of love, do we leave or stay?
What is the true definition of love?
Can anyone really explain?

if only we would love  
with our eyes
closed
and our hearts
open

we would not see
the outer shell

we would simply
fall in love with
the soul
the spirit
the heart
before us

for the rest
eventually falls away

I do not write poems
About the world we see
Because the world we see
Does not interest me

Landscapes inside my mind I find worthy of words
Internal curiosities appeal to me
I am bored by birds,  and clouds and flowers
Lakes, and trees and bees

Sure there is sadness enough in the mind of a bird
To fill an ocean with the tears
From trillions of heart-wrenching words
But you may prefer that I write about birds
With innocent human minds
Cute as pie, flying by, in the sky
Not terrified ravenous hunters
Constant killers of anything smaller
All through the day,
Like a child’s sinister play

Or should I write of cuddly cats
Who ambush innocent birds hopping by
Silly birds who should have stayed in the sky
‘Tis nothing to do with a need for food
‘Tis wanton bird abuse for cats' amusement

Our Earth family is Dysfunctional
The truth of Mother Nature
Is not what we want poets to write about

Sean Hunt  Windermere