This is the first poem I wrote after I died
I am thinking of the next line
like my life no longer depended on it

The second poem I wrote, I am searching  through words I had said and lied

By the time I finished my third poem
all I find is regret and reason to put my pen to rest, lay my papers aside
and could have just simply said
“I love you”, while I was alive

Every great poem begins with a great line
but not this poem, this poem of mine
it has its flaws and it ends with rhyme
like every poem I write, every time
But every poet can be great, I heard it said
if you write a poem, not to be scared
to be judged, or write to be read
keep it real, raw and great in your head

I am not afraid
to send you my ❤️ in a text
if you ignore or delete
it is not the one in my chest

that is for one and my only
it will not go to waste
like the ❤️ in this message
I can copy and paste

so if by chance you reply
with a real kiss
without an emoji, you win
my real heart, like this

I was short of a dream
walking along a quiet stream
by a salty shore of pain unseen
people asked, “Where have you been ?”

My eyes red, through things I reap
I have drunk the sting of tears I weep
and drowned my soul in shallow deep
cried out my heart in silent sleep

None to hear or heal my pain
I kept it hidden inside a grain
with roots thick through seasons of rain
twisting branches upon barren plain

Till I cried no more, red eyes can’t see
and  lay myself beneath this tree
budding bitterness as bitter can be
I fed off its fruits and buried me

Let me burn evermore
In a way I have never burned
before

Till the ashes
of my passions
cover the darkest night

Let us all learn to burn
till we yearn for light
and fight for sight
no more

His son wanted to play ball
So he got him a dog

He wanted to go fishing
So he got him a fish

His son wanted some advice
So he got him a book

He wanted some time
So he got him a watch

He just wanted a dad
But dad never got him

She asked me to write her a poem,
this is what I wrote…

She dreams of winter winds
that blow her breath and smiles
She likes the simple things
like walks, talks and style
and when she asks me for my time
I know she’s only teasing
she knows that without her love
I could not go on singing

For this reason then,
she told me to sing a song
and this is what I sang…

My voice is not the song of kings
nor any angel will heed my cry
But of all the sweetest things I bring
the sound of silence I will try
Not to strangle the loudest tear
or hang a hope of sky
As long as my love she loves me
before the day my love does die

She told me then to tell a tale
one that will never end…

Allow me to turn you into a book
I’ll breathe your story into the breeze
turn the pages of your eyes  
and whisper waves among the seas
Let them leave your soil of sorrow
Let them fill your dug up hole
find some shade within the shadow
where branches green within your soul

She stares weakly at the rest of me,
and asks, “Are there no other words
you keep?”

I look into her dying eyes
words take her final breath

My love lies down to sleep