I'm in your head with what I've read.
Sorry?  You say I'm not?
If we don't want the attention,
then why write this rot?

The poet is a complex breed;
they "spill it" for the page
but deny the closest knowing,
hiding source of love or rage.

Poetry, a selfish sport
we tease the world with rhymes
then troll the lines of someone else
as if we're owed the cries.

Not for public viewing
except what we control;
we measure just the prettiest
and the rest we hold.

Who really knows a writer
except themselves?
Our deepest, truest secrets
we hold upon our shelves.

By this the world's a poem
we wind together deep;
we ought to open up our hearts
let all the feeling seep.

I smile for a while
observing this new style
of speaking with someone
I recall.
The rocks and hills,
contests of wills
have given way to
waves across a sea.
An ocean of time
forgiving sublime;
you’re you
and I get to be me.
So now my friend,
my brother,
the face I wear is true;
just because I’m me
and you are you.

For a time tossed
Over rocks and in the under-tow,
Released from the fight I
Tame my spirit;
Reclaiming my composure to
Embrace lessons learned
Since time began to
Stir my soul.