I wonder what those lovers mean, who say
    They have giv’n their hearts away.
    Some good kind lover tell me how;
For mine is but a torment to me now.

  If so it be one place both hearts contain,
    For what do they complain?
    What courtesy can Love do more,
Than to join hearts that parted were before?

  Woe to her stubborn heart, if once mine come
    Into the self-same room;
    ’Twill tear and blow up all within,
Like a granado shot into a magazine.

  Then shall Love keep the ashes, and torn parts,
    Of both our broken hearts:
    Shall out of both one new one make,
From hers, th’ allay; from mine, the metal take.

  For of her heart he from the flames will find
    But little left behind:
    Mine only will remain entire;
No dross was there, to perish in the fire.

Today, like almost every other day, I thought to myself, "maybe I'll write today"
And, though like every other time the thought passed through my mind I scoffed at it, I actually decided it might be worth it
I looked around, found paper in my favorite yellow folder, and was almost ready
Then I remembered one of the most important pieces, the pencil
The only way I'd get anything to come alive, instead of distracting myself and turning this almost poem into a paper airplane

Here's the irony my friend; I couldn't find one
I looked and looked for a while but just couldn't find one
Sure, I found pens, but I'm a pencil purist,  or perhaps I don't have the courage to write in pen
Yet, for some unknown reason I became determined, and by a stroke of luck I found a pencil, hidden beneath a broken painting in the corner of the room

Eureka!, Aha!, and any other exclamation that may fit

I sat on the bed, got close to the papers, as always with my once typical writer's stance, clutched the instrument in my hand, and soon found the mechanical devil had no lead
Was the universe sending a sign?
I really thought so
I thought some greater force wanted me to just stop, really quit for good this time
Then I kind of realized something; What does the universe care if I write a bad poem or not?
No, it wouldn't
So I got up and looked again
And ya know what? It didn't take so long to find the second pencil, it was right where I found the first one
It had plenty of lead in it too, enough to write maybe ten more poems, good or bad
The eraser is wearing thin though, a reminder of my past mistakes

This isn't easy
There are tears on the paper
Like little oceans trying to get in the way
Like this poem is going to go down like the Titanic
But this poem isn't the Titanic
It wasn't thought to be beautiful and revolutionary when first created, I knew it would be mediocre at best
And if this poem goes crashing down it won't be a travesty, and millions won't be hurt
No, I'll just frown a bit
Also, I'm hoping this poem gets to where it needs to, unlike the Titanic

My hand is shaking as I write this nothingness down
The evidence is in my bad handwriting
And this page that was so crisp and clean before is wrinkled, smudged, and defaced
And a little damp
And do you know how I feel now that it's coming to a close?
A little better


I decided not to rip this one up

at night, you wonder if anybody actually
saw you today, and if they did,
had they noticed your shaking hands?

(sometimes you question if you were
taught english correctly, because every
i love you comes out as i'm sorry

and you are so tired of stuttering)

Evening was in the wood, louring with storm.
A time of drought had ****** the weedy pool
And baked the channels; birds had done with song.
Thirst was a dream of fountains in the moon,
Or willow-music blown across the water
Leisurely sliding on by weir and mill.

Uneasy was the man who wandered, brooding,
His face a little whiter than the dusk.
A drone of sultry wings flicker'd in his head.
The end of sunset burning thro' the boughs
Died in a smear of red; exhausted hours
Cumber'd, and ugly sorrows hemmed him in.

He thought: 'Somewhere there's thunder,' as he strove
To shake off dread; he dared not look behind him,
But stood, the sweat of horror on his face.
He blunder'd down a path, trampling on thistles,
In sudden race to leave the ghostly trees.
And: 'Soon I'll be in open fields,' he thought,
And half remembered starlight on the meadows,
Scent of mown grass and voices of tired men,
Fading along the field-paths; home and sleep
And cool-swept upland spaces, whispering leaves,
And far off the long churring night-jar's note.

But something in the wood, trying to daunt him,
Led him confused in circles through the thicket.
He was forgetting his old wretched folly,
And freedom was his need; his throat was choking.
Barbed brambles gripped and clawed him round his legs,
And he floundered over snags and hidden stumps.
Mumbling: 'I will get out! I must get out!'
Butting and thrusting up the baffling gloom,
Pausing to listen in a space 'twixt thorns,
He peers around with peering, frantic eyes.
An evil creature in the twilight looping,
Flapped blindly in his face. Beating it off,
He screeched in terror, and straightway something clambered
Heavily from an oak, and dropped, bent double,
To shamble at him zigzag, squat and *******.
Headlong he charges down the wood, and falls
With roaring brain--agony--the snap't spark--
And blots of green and purple in his eyes.
Then the slow fingers groping on his neck,
And at his heart the strangling clasp of death.