My dog can't see,
He goes under the table and paws at me.
Asking me to pet him, which I do.
But how does he know,
What hand is petting him if he can't see?

Unfortunately, love doesn't come with a handbook,
There's no guide that tells you how to show your affection.
I guess you'll just have to find out yourself.

They told me,
The kind of person I am, is good.
I asked them if they meant my because of my art,
They simply patted my shoulder, "You're not like them darling."
Who are they,
The people you say are bad?
I saw no one different than me at the showcase,
We were all humans who gathered to show off our art.
Of course, I know what they meant,
I just couldn't believe they'd say it.

That feeling,
When you discover,
New music,
That you love.

It takes a lot,                  Lots of love,
To make a little.            Lots of joy.

Many hands,                 A mistake made,
Make light work.         A lesson learned.

A chapter ended,
A chance for a new story to occur.

I walk the roads of home,
And I look at the same places I know.
But they're different now,
And I don't know why.
What's going on?
What's happening to this small town?
Where'd Cooper Deli go?
The old library, it's a teaching center now.
Why are all the changes made long ago,
Getting to me now?
I'm battling qualm,
In the same streets I've walked on for years.

How long does it take?
For you to see my poem,
Mr. Publisher?
You have me checking the mailbox,
Over and over, like I’m a little boy again.
Every time I open it and find no letter,
I feel the pain of self-doubt inside.

I wonder, Mr. Publisher, when will you read my work?
Or, have you read it already,
And are planning to send it back?
Using the ‘significant postage’ I left in the envelope.
Will I open your letter,
And find a cold message of rejection?
Or, will you love my poem?
Will you beg me to come publish with you?

Oh, Mr. Publisher, I need to know!
The little boy in me has grow old by now,
He clutches his walking stick,
As he goes to check his mail box.
Looking for that wax postage seal,
Red like the hide of a fox.

Mr. Publisher please!
I grow anxious everyday you do not respond,
And I re-read the poem I sent you almost every hour of the day.
My lover left me, Publisher Man,
She cursed me for giving more attention to you than her.
But matter not, does that!
That witch will see the man she left when I get my letter of approval from you!

Though, she did take most of our things with her,
Left my house a little empty, didn’t she?
Where will I sleep,
If she has the bed.
Alas, Mr. Publisher, I mind not the lack of sleep,
I’d rather spend the time waiting for the letter that's coming soon.
But how close is soon?
I remember telling my friend,
I’d be able to be her lover, soon.
But soon still hasn’t come,
As she still waits at the door for me.

Mr. Publisher, not a very good postmaster this town has!
For I still have not received your message of approval!
How strange is that?
I’m sure it simply got turned around,
It’s been days after all!
Days with no bed,
Days without my lover,
Days missing my friends.

Dear Publisher Man, have you not sent it at all?
The little boy who ran to check the mail,
Had his funeral yesterday.
I was invited, but as you know,
I was busy waiting for you to respond!
I’ll have to visit some other time,
For I’m sure I’ll see the postman who carries your letter soon.

For the first time in days I left my mailbox,
Mr. Publisher,
Well, not by choice you see.
For, you had me waiting for so long,
I died before your letter came!
What a shame,
Guess you didn’t have time for my work at all!

Mr. Publisher, not a soul came to see me be buried in the ground,
I kept telling my dear friends I could be with them again,
Soon.
But soon never came,
And the only one who will weep on my grave,
Are the crows,
And my dear friend,
That I left years ago.
Ha! Will she be my lover now?

You can keep the stamp Publisher Man,
I won’t be using it anymore.

My brother said he hates the boy scouts,
I don't know why, what have they done to him?
Maybe he hates them because,
They trimmed one too many branches of the Christmas tree.

O
pe
n Up Y
our Ey
es Once
In A Whil
e It's Nice.

Wait is  the   space    between     us      growing       ?

I can't believe I'm missing you,
After all the things you put me through.
Sleepless nights making sure you were alright,
Dreary days ensuring you were eating okay.
You never wanted to be seen in public,
So we never went on dates.
All the ways you would curse yourself,
All the compliments you gave me, that felt like insults in disguise.
When I got in trouble for the times I'd meet up with you 9th period,
And I had to talk to that counselor that I didn't like.
The way his office was so blank,
It made me uncomfortable.
The days I had to walk by the street,
Because you liked drifting too close the speeding cars.
After all the things you put me through,
I can't believe I'm missing you.

Explain to me how,
Going behind my back,
Is not betraying my trust.

My love is warm,
She makes my face flow with red.
My love is cold,
To others but I cannot feel it.
My love is trusting,
Good thing I was honest.
My love is playful,
Good thing I played her game.
My love is one of a kind,
The only woman I see.
My love is careful,
With my heart that is healing.
My love is a thief,
Of my breath.
I am lost in my love.
She is a frozen hourglass,
A bottle of endless time together.
She is my muse,
A piece of glowing beauty.
She is a torch,
My guiding light.
And, oh,
She was mine.

Sometimes I'll be listening to music,
And the music will pause.
So I have to go back to what's playing the music,
To ensure it that it's playing the right song.

Quis sum ego?
Vir som.
Ego confido in me,
Est bonum?

Imagine reading a poem,
Beginning a comment on it,
Looking for the name of the author,
And realizing you wrote it.

S N O W
i  o  v   i
l  e  e   n
e  l  r   e
n
t

It's good,
To wake up and,
Know that there is a place here,
Where I can be me, you can be you, and we can do it as one.

There came a point,
Where he no longer feared.
The endless stream of violence,
They faced him with.

S T I L L
t  a t i  o
o l  s e v
p k   s  e
   i
   n
   g

The feeling,
Of being,
Someone's First,
Follower is,
Absolutely elating.

I hear whispers,
In the night.
Somebody lurking,
Far away
Or are they,
Very close?
Paranoid,
Hanging crosses on doorknobs.
But does even Christ,
Have the power to protect me from things unreal?
Staring into the dark,
Fatigue eating at me.
Trying to be quiet,
So whatever is out there won't hear me breathe.

Dreams take me back,
To dark winter woods.
Howling winds,
I swear I saw it.
I swear it's real.

I like looking for my friends' poems online,
Although I know I've never met them,
And I probably never will.
I still consider them friends,
Although they're just a person here to read poems,
And I don't know what they even consider me.

The rose remembers,
The dust from which it came.
I too remember,
The dust from which I came.
I remember blossoming,
From the bud I used to be.
And I remember winter,
I grew thorns that first frost.
I have memories,
From when I leaned constantly to a lover’s hand.
Because I too rose from dust,
And matured in cold months.
And soon I will drop my petals,
And I will perish,
Just to rise again,
Bearing wings like a phoenix.

Lover's lover loved,
Then lover's lover lied.
And then lover's lover left,
For another lover yet.

.hguorht em tup uoY
,niap emas eht leef mih ekaM
.uoy ot did I dias uoy tahW
,did ohw nam eht hcnup d'I

Je suis dans amour.
Mon amoureuse est brillant,
C’est juste nous.
Tout ce que je sais c’est elle.
C’est gentil,
Tu m’as apporté des fleurs!
J’ai juré,
Mais j’ai glissé,
Maintenant je tombe à nouveau.
Je suis amoureux.

Someday,
I'd like to,
Write,
A poem where,
Every,
Line is written,
By,
A different poet.

F I N A L L Y
i  l  e      a o  e
r l  e      s v  s
s    d      t e  
t             i
              n
              g
I T S
   o t
   u a
   c  r
   h s
   e
   d
O V E R
p  a  v e
a  r   e s
l   r   r  p
s   y  y e
            c
            t

I have yet to hear his symphony,
In o’ so very long.
I wait here every day, hoping to hear the mystic song.
To experience his mighty minuet again.

For that night,
Somewhere far from the hills.
South of the rapids that drive away the men.
I heard a cricket, who carried the most entrancing melodies.
And as it played, the branches of the trees began to sway in a musical way.
What a beat!
Made o, by a tree!

I thought little of it.
Then the grasses began to ripple.
And someone in the town began to sing.
“O’ Martha, why can’t you stay?
Why must the men carry you so far away?”

O’ what a sound,
Only broken by the final fading of the starry sky.

I was walking down the street,
And I saw you from afar.
Staring at me from the park bench,
On the elementary school's playground.
You waved at me,
I didn't wave back.
I don't think I'm ready to forgive you yet.

Latin is a beautiful language,
But it confuses me.
Ignis significat aquam.

Sometimes
I feel
Like my words
Are just flavor text

Why won't it let me,
Follow more than 38 people?
Am I not aloud,
To enjoy more than,
38 artists?
Seems silly.

I trended for five minutes,
Not a single minute more.
And yet those five minutes,
Are the best five minutes,
That I've ever had before.

Tonight there were fireworks,
They went off over the lake.
They were so loud,
It was like they were trying to blow a hole in the sky.

!yeH
!meop ym s'tahT
,krow ym s'tahT
.ti elots uoy timda tsael tA

My love sent me to dig two graves,
One for her, one for me,
When our eternity has passed.
But instead I dug three.
One for her,
One for me,
One for my temptations,
That I’m tempted to take you see.
Even if I love her,
I still love the thrills.
So when I am old,
And life brings drafts and chills.
I will hold her close to me, to the grave,
But I will bring all the thrills,
They just don’t seem to leave me.

Run river, run wide,
Don't let them dam you, be free,
Run river, run long.

W I L L
h  f  o o
a     v v
t      e e
       r d
       s
Y O U
o  w s
u  n
  S T I L L
  w h l i o
  e  a  l s v
  a  t     t e
  r        e
            n
   L O V E
   o  c  i  v
   o  e  o e
   k  a  l  r
   !   n e  y
           t  w
           s  h
               e
               r
               e
    M E ?
    a   v
    y   e
    b   n
    e    t
         u
         a
         l
         l
         y

I don't want to flood this site,
But I think it's worth mentioning,
That overnight,
I went from needing,
299 poets,
To only needing,
294.

I've loved everything I've received,
And I am forever grateful.
Once the poem is done,
I will take down these updates.
So they don't sit around,
They'll be replaced, by a master piece.

Ofetn,
I spel wordz,
Awefully wong.

The fact I can press a button on here,
And read poems to make make you happy.
I love it.
But there's a reason it's poems 'to' make you feel happy,
It isn't guaranteed.

So is there a poem on here that I can read,
That will teach me how to love again?

Reading the Odyssey,
By Greek poet Homer.
I finally realized,
Not all heroes are heroic.
And some aren't heroes at all,
Often the monsters in the story,
Aren't monstrous at all.
Most times they're simple farmers or townspeople,
Upon whom the hero welcomed themselves to.
And when they retaliated,
The author makes it look like the hero did nothing wrong.
Heroes aren't humble,
Not at all.
They waste the lives of their crewmates,
Trying to do the impossible.
And, Odious,
Really *****.

My friend found another website,
That they want to try out.
They told me I should sign up,
I did it only to write with them.
I took me an hour just to post a poem.

First, read the terms and conditions,
48 bullet points of rules to follow,
Though I still don't know what's going on.
Second, check your email,
Find what Kevin sent you,
And set your password up.
Third, post a poem on your profile,
If you don't it doesn't work,
And you can't view other profiles.
Fourth, try and post a second poem,
Oops! You need to comment,
On at least two other poems.
Fifth, Your comment must be,
At least, 50 characters,
They won't even accept 49.

I'm good here,
It's less confusing.

It takes an awful lot,
To know awfully little.
But I'll give up years,
If it means seeing you smile,
For real this time.

H
  a
   p
  p
  y

I s a w or d
That eye am knot familiar with

i know more of heaRt
Ache and
Depression i wish i didn't
often wIshing i could smile more
but even if i Could
i doubt i would After
all you stiLl couldn't

W e  i   r    d
I s  a   style    you     loved.

Good Thing I Love Being Weird With You.

Finally,
The aching feeling,
That,
I felt for you,
Is,
Gone and I think it might be,
For,
Good, now I can be happy again for,
Ever.

How come poetry has to be so clean?
I'm terrified to let out literature,
If I don't think it would be valued,
On the poetry scene.
Sometimes life isn't good green,
So how come I have to write like it is?

I wonder occasionally,
If I write too many of these.
But I remind myself that,
While other people love them.
I'm really writing these for me.