I'm not ready to go, just yet,
let me stay a little longer;
I'm not that old you know,
perhaps a bit less stronger.
But my mind, it's still alive,
sharp as a tack... (I think);
I have many things to do,
that will keep me in the pink.
Old age is but a state of mind,
I have pleasant memories;
the years have been but kind,
(tho' I've sailed on troubled seas).
Let me leave when I am ready,
I will fight the dying light;
I'll be wary of the coming storm,
and the never-ending night.
Let this life keep right on rolling,
like the pages of some book;
content with passages of time,
for the world, one long last look.

I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)

She controls her laughter,
lets it slip from the edge of her mouth,
the corners of her lips lift ever so slightly,
then, she makes a sound,
seamlessly, her fingers graze my thighs,
smoothly, her eyes meet mine,
and in her eyes, I see my reflection—
aflame, abashed, and fiery,

She is the answer I’ve scoured the world for,
and yet, she, herself, remains a mystery,

Ah, I see,
She controls her laughter
as easily as she controls me.