I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand--
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.

You made a poet fall in love with you
And expected her not to write sonnets about your eyes
Haikus about the way you kissed her in the moonlight
Expected the fire in her heart not to inspire couplets
You made a poet fall in love with you, and when you left
Expected her not to write pages about the ache in her chest
Write a soliloquy dedicated to her tears
Expected her not to feel every gut wrenching moment of the pen hitting paper like your words hit her in the most vulnerable places of her mind.
You made a poet fall in love with you, and you expected her to be silent.
That is no fault of hers.

To share my dreams with
To sleep next to every night
To laugh with everyday
To have children with
To love and cherish
To marry one day
To watch endless movies with
To spend forever with
To simply BE with
I would choose you
Every single time
EVERY SINGLE DAY
*ALWAYS

michael was a poet
from the moment he arrived
taking all that he was given
and putting it to rhyme

holding to the certainty
on the day that he was born
michael would take it all in hand
and live it out in poem

he would fill his days with laughter
letting sadness have the night
as it came in bits and pieces
in the poetry he would write

there were those that never understood
what brought his thoughts to mind
beyond the space he was living in
on another plain in time

dipping often in the rhythm
as his tide would ebb and flow
michael was a poet
and that's all he's ever known

What you didn't realize is that you left traces of yourself behind

You knew exactly how I was feeling
and yet you still dragged me along
through the dirt and leafs that fall
you somehow expect me to forgive
and forget- I don't think you know
me, no.. you never did.

are you like me?
prone to try to write
away your miseries,
desire calm
behind the cause
the beginning find
perhaps
write upon a
thought profound,
that makes
me, or you
open up our eyes?
When we set out,
supposedly, to
sound out
loud shout a
feeling read it
finished
say My god!
Realize on
second read
we spoke
of me
or you?
Edited so much
but came
out true.

he still doesn't realize
that beauty has a price

he plucks roses and
wonders why they wither
when he's never learnt
to check their roots.

with thorns between his lips,
he speaks softly about
the way love has eluded
him over the years.

his palms like written verse,
scarred and coarse, petals
falling delicately out of
time from his fingertips.

he sees beauty but he
does not see underneath

he has always been
one to see the flames
but never feel the heat.

I'd like to keep her to myself but that aint right
Don't want to deprive anyone their privilege to write
So if she's with me tonight, you can have her the following night I don't mind

I wasn't always like this you know
I've always thought that love was a tunnel that you fall into
and once you hit rock bottom you get broken
Hence the heart broken statuses

I blew everything outta proportion
But when the time came I grew into a better person
So all this affection for Poetry came after a good lesson

Poetry is the only one that fully understands me
I just hope I can fully explain it to you

What happens to deleted poems?
Do they go to the same place as aborted children?
Somewhere between heaven and hell.
A purgatory perpetuated by the misery of doubting one's self.
Maybe they condense into clouds like vapor into rain,
only to eventually fall back down upon our heads again.
In the pained expression you wear on your face,
I can read nearly a thousand words unsaid.