I don’t know what I’m doing wrong
I read this poem to my mom
and you know how she chose to respond?
with a soft grunt that was truly withdrawn

she doesn’t seem to have a care
for what I might choose to share
I used to leave my soul out bare
but now I voice my thoughts elsewhere

Jealous of the sea.

He was always jealous of the ocean,
How could he write songs like the waves?
The timpani drums on the breaking tide,
Crescendos written on corral staves.
Harmonizing whistles from a shoreline quartet,
And the gentle reeds blow a soft minor key.
How could he ever write songs like the ocean,
How could he ever compose like the sea.

you always were my muse
for good times
and for bad times
I always had you

I wrote poems filled with anger
others filled with lust
some with loving phrases
some with hateful verses

you were always my muse
when I was struggling
I had you to write about
everyday there was something new

maybe that was part
of our day to day battle
fighting for something
while fighting over nothing

fighting to feel anything
fighting about dumb things
up and down
back and forth

you always were my muse
and this poem proves
that without my consent
I guess you still are

Well don't you know girl,
You're a wonder of this world.
A butterfly's wing wrapped around mountain ranges.
Dancing like lillies on lakes of sunset kisses and morning hugs.
Trapped in the maze of half cooked poems, imagery and pain,
I can't get you off my mind, but I'm really not complaining.