You'll never get rich as a poet,
its not that you're not any good,
but your words get given away to the poor,
like you're a lyrical Robin of Hood.

Your words will serve as a comfort,
to women and children and men,
but your time and emotions flow freely,
like the ink from your fountain pen.

But lets be honest about one thing,
we don't do what we do for the cash.
Words are like itches we can't quite scratch,
and our poems the resulting rash.

So you'll never get rich as a poet,
at least not in a monetary sense,
but you'll have lived your life in the trenches,
and not watched it pass by from the fence.

The uncomfortable smile
that you wear on your face
Your self confessed klutzness
and perceived lack of grace

The things that you say
and the things that you do
are just some of the things
I like about you

Like the stillest of waters
you run so deep
and the words that you share
are the treasures I'll keep

You're honest and modest
and fragile yet strong
and yet so uncertain
of where you belong

Let go of your past
leave your baggage behind
and trust in your heart
and just see what you find

You may be surprised
at how good things can be
If you let yourself go
let yourself become free

My secret thoughts reside
in the backyard of my existence
where darkness cries out in shivers
clear to my bones.  
I wake up to find them
packed neatly on shelves in my mind
and wish I could just crawl away,
be left alone.

They come from my emotions,
dressed in sadness
with no intention of ever  comforting
what they transform.
There are days
when they make a decision
to rearrange the places I stand
until I am left without hope,
forlorn.

My secret thoughts are the lyrics of my being
which bid my heart
to walk on a white canvas
of the purest snow.
Oh the damage
that could be done
if I spoke them aloud,
my true feelings revealed
with these eyes full of woe.

I cannot bend or I'll break
so I hide on these shelves
in my mind,
packed neatly away
from all that challenges
my tree of life,
such as falling leaves.
My secret thoughts control
how my tongue refrains
from speech,
So my true feelings,
you will.....
never see.

A normal day, I think not, when I am away from you.
This is when my heart races
and I talk too much with my eyes.  
Who sees the places that wake up the world
when I walk beside you?  
Even ancient stars subtlety stare in silence
at the easy way my thoughts exude
sweet memories of you.

Where are the little rooms where flowers blossom
when I look into the looking glass
that whispers love travels
between you and me?  
Why is it when I look into the back of my mind
I find I am drinking in the essence of you
until I am filled with a happiness
full of color that takes
my breath away.

A normal day, I think not, when I am away from you.  
Shade may cover the sun
but the memory of your eyes
sings the light back to me.
My beloved, the mere mention of your name
on my lips
takes away any restless shadows
that try and pass into my heart
you see.

You are inside of me as love splashed on the canvas of my day.
It makes no difference if my hand touches your own.
A normal day, I think not,
when I am away from you,
but I know,
I am never alone.

You are there beyond what is mentioned when I rise from my chair
And predicting the future seems to always end in futility
I could walk with you through all these words that are foreign
But would I find I was burning in unutterable possibilities

Anticipation you cannot see in my stride when I move vaguely along
Plainly oblivious to all the grass growing under my feet
You see me breathing slowly and wonder how soon I will fly
Into phrases more pleasing than tasting honey is sweet

A temporary distance runs in a curve beyond what is mentioned
Your eyes seize the fire from half-truths you can hear
Present moment is held in nameless rooms hid in the dark
Where you try to read notes I penned for you there

I move vaguely along to plant footsteps that lead to my heart
Creating a path to free your own from this distance
I am not oblivious to the grasses growing under my feet
When I rise from my chair, I am anticipating a change
In our existence

beautiful women are not women
with flat stomachs
beautiful women are not women
with perfectly perfect white teeth
beautiful women are not women
with airbrush skin
beautiful women are not women
who's hair is not even their own

beautiful women are beautiful
because of their pudgy tummies
beautiful women are beautiful
because of their crooked teeth
beautiful women are beautiful
because of their moles, scars, and freckles
beautiful women are beautiful
because of their hair that explodes in rain
and cannot be tamed with a hair brush



beautiful women.


there are so many in the world.