Ever wondered about my style?
What I admire and what I deem vile?
Well, gather around, I'll let you see
Who I am, through what else, but poetry?

My favorite flower is a cherry blossom.
As for food, bread is awesome.
I spend much of my time on Twitter.
I like birds, the ones that flutter.

My favorite author is Ms. Anne Rice.
Her book, "Memnoch" is very nice.
My favorite poet is Aleister Crowley.
As for artist, that would be Dali.

I like Reggae straight from Trenchtown.
Most of all, I like System of a Down.
Philip Wesley is my favorite composer.
If I may be so bold, Chopin, move over.

My favorite film is Sweeney Todd.
By my top director, who is slightly odd.
Johnny Depp is my favorite actor and hunk.
I'm not a fan of touchdowns and dunks.

A big interest is Nutrition and Health.
I'm against Corporations and Banks, with all their wealth.
I like Documentaries and things that make me think.
Carrot juice is one of my favorite things to drink.

My favorite painting hangs on my wall.
The artist or name, I have not a clue at all.
I like eating cherries and playing pretend.
I like talking to those I consider a friend.

I like dancing at raves, even on the stage.
I like my job, though it's minimum wage.
I'm good without gods, I bow to none.
No political party, with that, I'm done.

That about sums me up, I hope you see
My likes and interests described to a tee,
In the fashion of the rhyme scheme A and B.
Did I mention the fact that I write poetry?

Would the song bird's
Sweet melodic tweets
Be as well heard
And as jovially received
If he had no one to please?

Would the mighty ant
Work so ferverously
If he had not a constraint
To honor his Queen unquestioningly?

Would the gentle bee,
Giving life to all of Nature
Pollinate the fruit and the trees
Without the sweetness of the nectar?

Does the sun that gives me warmth,
Shining on my apple cheeks
Bring me bliss with its hearth,
And expect nothing and has no needs?

All of Nature and all of Life
Revolves around fulfillment and pleasure.
Yet the sun, this ball of light,
Has no reason to deliver.

I thank the birds, the bees, and the trees
For giving me this moment of splendor.
Yet they are already well fulfilled -
It is the sun who satisfies our wills
While it burns, oblivious, in its slumber.

I start my days out with the sunrise
Along the eastern shore.
Watching as the morning appears
From up the ocean floor.

The air heavy with anticipation
As another day begins.
This day I choose of my own making.
Partaking of blessings Heaven sent.

I end my days with a sunset
On the Western coast of the land.
The day ends with a bang
As I watch on golden sand.

The sky has exploded
In oranges and pinks.
I have this time before the stars
To sit and watch and think.

Of what will come before me?
Waves washing away moments lost.
Pulling back the shade to expose the day,
Though I'm not here to count the cost.

No guiding lines to follow.
I expect of life no less.
Through the shadows of the mountains
The night's sun sets in the west.

I think of green grass
I once saw in the east.
I think of days long gone passed,
And am overcome with peace.

The sun may rise a thousand times
By the day the end is in reach.
No worries about what has come and is to come.
I just go with the bend in the beach.

I bring your attention,
Unabided and true,
To the one I shall mention,
The girl who daydreams the whole day through.

I recall from infancy,
Gazing up at my mobile,
Imaginations I'd see
Behind my daydreaming smile.

I have my quirks,
Like shaking my wrists.
Grasping things also works
To send my mind into twists.

I pick up a book
I have no intention to read,
But boy, how it shook
When I played my daydream.

My visions come alive.
I see it on the big screen.
Others ask if I'm alright,
I can't admit my daydreams.

Thanks for your attention,
And I hope you now see
An outlook of appreciation
To those of us who daydream.

We molded
Play-dough
Many Summers ago.
You molded memories
I'll always keep.
You've molded children
To be beautiful,
Like you.

You mold beauty
With your hands.

There is a place in our Universe
Visited by awestruck beings.
Where thoughts never turned to verse
Can be rejuvenated and seen.

The Universe has to stow
These lost thoughts for a reason.
So somewhere it springs to life
In a place called Lost Poet's Heaven.

When a poet envisions a scene
Or conjures up a line,
Lost Poet's Heaven, wouldn't you know it,
Embalms it into time.

The grieving maiden, too
Succumbed by tears to write,
Expresses her plight, unleashes her heart,
With nothing but her thoughts.

These thoughts she never penned
Can reappear again
When she has died, and her tears have dried,
And beholds Lost Poet's Heaven.

Lost Poet's Heaven, splendid and serene.
Filled with art to the tops
Of the pink clouds gathering.

Down comes the purple raindrops
Entrapped with your script.
You taste it on your thirsty tongue,
Lavishing long lost rhymes with every sip.

The sunshine casts rays of sublime poetry.
Later to be felt on the skin,
Absorbing the memory.

The Universe is kind, but doesn't want
The Hopeless Romantic to know it.
In Lost Poet's Heaven, the girl of his dreams
Is wooed by the clueless poet.

So when you lose your train of thought,
Smile, don't you fret.
In Lost Poet's Heaven, what you forget
Can be free to float about in mystery.