There is gold in them hills, he says
Gazing whistfully at her peaks and valleys
So he's going digging
Chipping happily away at each new glittering curve he discovers
She watched on in giggling, sunlight type wonder
Curious if he shall ever be satisfied
For he was of a thirsty nature
One for white lightening
Another for the metallic shine
Of her lace-edged divine

I know it is not my place
Yet I read your work and cannot help but wonder
Can you see yourself the way I do
Not just a mess. A horrible person
With honey in their words
Acid on their tongue
Dreams of neverwhere dripping like leaky faucet lips
I cannot help but want to fix with a wrench

With a pen to a paper,
Like a sword to a foe,
I write poetry,
And present it to the world,
Like a present with a bow.
Letting the words
fill my paper.
Watching them take flight
Like many birds
drifting across updrafts in the wind.
And I will send
Them like a "get well" card
To every person who needs a friend.
Poetry is a healing process.
A coping system
A cure
A medicine for those in need.
Poetry is a dream
In which you don't
Have to scream
Unless you want to.
A dream that you control,
A beam that you can hold,
A story yet untold,
Perfectly crafted jewel,
With scripture writ in gold.

With lips
Like Hershey Kisses,
So sweetly,
You draw me in.

Like honey dripping
To a fly,
You draw me in.

Like a beautiful
And smelling flower
to a bee flying free,
You draw me in.

Like a smoker
Wanting their
Nicotine,
You draw me in.

With a grin
Not unlike a
Crescent moon's,
You draw me in.

Like an alcoholic
searching for
one last drop of Gin,
You draw me in.

Like a little lamb,
Drawn to a lion
In search of a friend,
You draw me in.

The love of my life.
My person who is supposed
to be here with me.  

Is not.

My person cannot  
see past our history.
We'll always be more.

Than friends.