I can almost expect
What you're worth to me
The search for something I care about
Leads me to consider some like you

To be honest, you're a bit of a plaything,
Some little dolly I can twist
To make me happy, one
Bird in the light's chorus

So the vanity in me congratulates you, you're in, that which I'm sure about
In my garden of the could've-beens
Where all is shelved and warm and no longer offensive

You can be great there, one of the best
And walk through the grass, the fountains of instinct
And meet the others who came before
As though you cared

There, you can taste the sweetness
Of pollen I scatter, brush past currents on the wind I send to ruffle your hair
*** it should be displayed,
Hear the laughter of girls in the painted summer
And appreciate me

If I said tomorrow
Would be a farewell, I lied
For today is a worrysome lesson
A grant of freedoms rarely wanted

But I never say goodbye forever
Just be one to remember that
Readily I'm returning
Every day, every night
Some way

I'm going to think a while
Throw what taste I have to other customs
Of my own interest, but don't forget
How I was born to see you
At my hand every day

I'm going away to think about what I want
And feel the brink with my toes
To rekindle my passion and
Rid myself of cliché

In days not yet with us
I'll know what I need
Nearer to what I expect to get
And redetermine my pathly vision
To make good of the promise I made

When what is new
Stays through night's wading charm
And lasts not for fame's harm
But ignorance left here with thee
There you invite something special, something free.

Where you use what is new
And usurp the old order
You taste what lore old beggars do
And beautify lost tomes once more

When you find what was forgotten
And wrap wedded slogans on yourself
Raise slightest youth from its ignorant ways
There, thine work is well founded,
And your spirit well freed

A poet's not the one who shouts the loudest, no
Not the one with flowers in their hair, she who declares
Her wishes to those who cross their heart
And write about dying, listening to her
A poet's not one with a crystal ball, Tory Taurus,
Nor one who speaks to glass caverns, taking themselves in
Reflected light, a poet
Is not one who paints themselves green to be seen

Listen, and you're the poet,
Stunt light's tracing fluid in your growth room
And you're the poet
Grow to hate crowds and you're
Write in the silence of apathy and you're
Put your collapses into verses
And you're the poet
You gorgeous night petal, you
Misplaced word
Thank you.

On a painting
I know
No white will be as pure
As the page left untouched
And no smudge as dark
As that scribbled in too heavy-handedly
For a need of perfection

I don't remember
Having an answer
For this buried
Putrid in me
Grey that I feel

I don't believe
In what's special
About me my
Melancholic attention to
All I disagree
Exists, furrowed relationships
Between cells in
My mind, exist

If I move
Towards what I'm
Afraid of, I
Can forget it's
My guiding star
And smell flowers
And talk conversations
But all I
Work for is
Still hopeless. Word.