Maybe i don’t cry
but it hurt
Maybe i don’t say
but i feel
Maybe ..
I don’t stay
but i really care

Poems aren't written,
they're found,
Somewhere in your head the words are waiting,
They're sprawled across the floor,
You just need to pick them up,
Make a path with them,
Let your path guide observers,
And if you can't write,
Walk down somebody's else's path first,

Dear HP,

This is not a poem
But a question
The answer to which
I do hope you have

Why does my lover claim to love me
But still looks for every opportunity
To let me go?

Is it that she loves me so much
But doesn't think she's worthy of me

Or she doesn't love me enough
To think I'm worthy of her?

There is an apple
lying in the street
pure in color,
bitter in taste.
I want to find
what lies beneath the poison.
There is a sky
just above our heads.
Acid rain
burns skin.
I want to feel
the purer water.

A Rasberry is the sound Archie Bunker makes when he sticks his tongue partially out of his mouth and then blows air through it.   It makes a big * sound. Here is what I say to my enemy:

<<<<<<<<<RASBERRY>>>>>>>>>>>

Which is so entirely appropriate since their existence is like a giant walking *.

May the space between
where I am when I’m
alone

and where I am when I’m
with you

be the ground in which
we can plant the seeds

of forgiveness