If there comes a time
that you might lose me
Find me in my poetry

I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)

serenade me with silence

...

I look for your affections between the lines...

on napkin corners...

in notebooks, worn with age

...

unclothe me to the metronome of your latest rabbit trail

I won't mind if it is meant for someone else

...

love, I'm asking for nothing more than to share your bed

...

play muse, for a night

or two

...

darling, I think I could be poetic for you.

"I'm just tired."                                                          ­              Tired of trying, 
"I'm just tired."                                                          ­              Tired of crying.

"I'm just tired."                                                          ­             Tired of smiling,  
"I'm just tired."                                                          ­               Tired of dying.

"I'm fine, just tired."                                                        Tired of saying fine,
"I'm fine, just tired."                                      When I'm way beyond that line.

"I'm fine, just tired."                                              Tired of fighting my mind,
"I'm fine, just tired."                                             Tired of always being kind. 

"I'm ok."                                                             ­              Tired of the faking, 
"I'm ok."                                                             ­            Tired of the shaking.

"I'm ok."                                                             ­               Tired of forgiving,
"I'm not ok!"                                                             ­              Tired of living.

Why did you give us up?
                                                                     Am I not enough?
Why did you give us up?
                                                                     Did I not try hard enough?
Why did you give us up?
                                                                     Should I smile more?
Why did you give us up?
                                                                     Am I not pretty enough?
Why did you give us up?
                                                                     Was I not a good daughter?

They're stepping things up
by
closing things down
and keeping us safe in
old London town.

An old man told me
that the country
is going to the dogs,
I said,
not Walthamstow
that
closed years ago.

Pastimes are taken away every day,
a little bit here and dab on some fear
then they'll take a little bit more.

When they close down the subway, the railway,
the day will be darker, the streets will be busier,
will we be any safer or just tired?

I am not just a poet,
I am a rose bud
wishing for a dream.
My poet blooms when
I express my appreciation
for my craft.

That like a seed,
my poetic vision
plants an idea
within your life
breaking the cage
you’ve build to
secure your own poetic
possibilities in your
mind.

I am always developing
my plots for future
poetic gardens for you
to cultivate and consume.

© 2020 By Amanda Shelton