Call it fate or a mistake
But I'm always running late
Whether it's in to morning work
Or out to nightly dinner dates

Never have I been early
At anything I do
Except to say that I'll be late
But that you already knew

It's been that way from the beginning
Starting with my nine and a half month birth
Inside of the womb, slept till way past noon
For all that I was worth

Still feel I'm in my teenage years
Late at growing up
But I must say the way adults act these days
Don't think I'm missing much

I may even be late for my own funeral
But would that be a crime
I ask who out there wouldn't care
If they missed their day of dying

So call it fate or a mistake
One or another, either way
All I can say is that to this day
I'm always running late

What are words but simple building blocks
But those simple blocks are used here to create beautiful works of art
Beautiful poetry is an art form often misunderstood
But for some (us) an expression of freedom
The freedom to open our minds and pen what we see

This is how you write a poem
When you're holding nothing
Find a line and set to rhyme
Until it sounds like something

Settle on a subject
Although you may not know it
You might want to Google
So that you don't blow it

Hopefully you have spell check
So you're not labeled an idiot
If you lack in the vocab
Go back to the Google bit

Do it all for the fun and
Keep those rhymes a coming
That's pretty much how you write
A poem straight out of nothing

I live in a world of words
That constantly spins around
A solar system filled with verbs
And planetary nouns

Syllables that hold me down
Like the 3 in gravity
Consonants in and out
Is the oxygen I breath

Adjectives and adverbs
My galaxy abounds
In this world I live of words
That constantly spins around

Wall clock,
Tick-tock.
Slaves to all of time.
Fear,
Block.
Heart-drop;
Failure to comply.

How do you measure
What can't be seen
The heart of a man
The in of between
The conscience that follows
When something's done wrong
How do you measure
The depth of a poem

How do you measure
The day you must face
If it's taken for granted
If it's given in grace
Or measure a seed
That has yet to show growth
How do you measure
What you do not know

How do you measure
The hour before late
The width of a shoulder
Where a tear is laid
The inkling of an idea
The moment it's made
How do you measure
Love before it's given away

How do you measure
The chill of the wind
The guilt of the pleasure
That comes from within
The sliver of light
Before the sun has it's say
How do you measure
The end of the day

well, poetry begins by suspending reason,

unnaming and renaming everything ,

taking apart the small parts and making one big metaphor.

calling a flower your lover,

or pain as a roses thorn,

a smile as the sun,

a frown as a crescent moon,

and of course stars ,

they have to be included,

as sparkling,

butterflies are forbidden in modern poems,

as are roses, to which I alluded,

my bad , though,

I see poetry as anything

you feel deep enough to

try to write a poem about

and makes you feel