I could write a million
Poems about that particular moment,
With our bodies so close together,
And my heart beating out of my chest.

The way you traced along my skin
ever so slightly
With your finger tips making me shiver.

You always said you loved my poems,
You said they made you feel free
And that you only wanted me.

So here I am writing a poem,
All & only for you.
And I just wanted to say,
I only want you too.

love
have no season
love
is the reason
in search of
our hearts
this love
that we measure
this love
that we breathe
this love
it survives
this love
that we wonder
this love is good
this love be glad
oh Lord
this
love is thine

maybe you could make it more obvious,
that you don’t want me.
that it would be easier,
if I was gone.
maybe you could help me feel like I wasn’t alone.
maybe you’re just waiting for the day
that I tell myself the horrible things you’ve always wanted to say to me.


maybe one day you’ll realize
I tell myself every one of those things
everytime I close my eyes

I cannot cry for I fear
That following my first tear
All the sadness felt before
Will see me cry ever more.
For if I let myself go
Years of tears will freely flow,
Once I shed that first tear drop
I may never, ever stop.

The seven seas
the human race
their waters are one
we share the same life giving blood
they have different names
we come in many colors
they are separated by continents
we are separated by religion
these differences
do nothing to change that fact
that they remain one water
and we are one human race

I’m no author, novelist or poet.
I’m just Me,
And don’t I know it.
I don’t need to be classified,
As long as I’m writing, I’m satisfied.

Typing out words, line by line,
I don’t care if they don’t rhyme.
I don’t care if my verses don’t scan:
I’m not always an Iambic Man.

I just say what I gotta say,
I’m not worried about any pay.
Words come to me without much bidding,
The world of its evils I hope to be ridding.

I love to spread lots and lots of Love,
Bringing peace to all like a messenger dove.
Things of beauty bring joy, John Keats rightly said,
To make us sleep easy when we go to bed.

So I’ll paint what I paint,
And sing what I sing,
Just letting those words
Do their magical thing.

Paul Butters