I started writing poems years ago.
Someone said i even missed my calling,
which is kinda flattering but may also have meant i was pretty lame at my real job.
I get distracted by the Likes
Verse and vice,
Prose and price,
On the site.
Statistics and counting,
not lofty fodder for wit and imagination and love and bleeding.
But, I get distracted by the likes,
And I want them.
Natalie said they don't count twice.
Ooh, once I was even trending.  But I suspect that's a ploy to bait me.
Still, a time in the sun, even if just a coding device.
No real poet would find that proper.
Perhaps I'm just not a poet, or even poetic.
I suspect there's other evidence to indict me.
Please don't be too harsh, or worse, click away.
I want to write a verse that strikes a chord,
But I get stuck on just which ones to play.
Because I'm looking for the lightening bolt to turn yellow.
I have IRBD envy.  But not of verse but of what, or who follows.
For Likes.
I know thats lame and not what a real poet would do.
A poet of noble and lofty thoughts, of obtuse meaning and lyric wordsmithing.
With a cult-like following and others just trying to figure out what it means,
But they know the poets name, and that counts for something.
I'm impure and unworthy, or perhaps not talented
A poetic imposter, a fraud.
I've got the likes to prove that anyway,
If, that's what they prove.

Never have I been able
to place my finger on where
my trouble sits
deep inside my flesh
lodged in like a weary traveler
finally able to rest,

I do not know the reasons
for why he entered into my life
holding great felicity
delicately as if it were
the only precious gem in the world,

I ponder the answers to why
I will never hear another tap against
my window pane
or hear him speak the syllables
of my name,

For he is gone and the one
to never return with
jouissance dwelling in
the palm of his tired hands.

It was a dream.
It was.

When you held me in your arms;
a sweet minute of slumber
and abated fallacy.
When you looked at me
with digestive eyes; I guess
never was I impervious.
When you planted
a damp kiss: Illusion's flower
and saw me off.

It was a dream.

When you sighed into my ear
a madness so warm yet
so morosely beautiful. (I...)

It was a dream.

When you drove under the stars
above asphalt black and cold,
on that crying night of June. (Save...)

It was a dream.

When I watched your
lips darken with the ashen sky;
and you laid unmoving. (...me.)

And it was a dream.
It was.

I just never was able to rouse.

all my thoughts like rain
falling on my face, and hiding my tears
should I talk about it?
should I use umbrella words to keep myself dry?
I don't think that helps
lying to yourself to stop the rain
when you know you can't
you know no one can stop the rain
but I'll use the umbrella anyway
keeping my face dry, and watching the rain fall around me
each drop bursting on the ground
my thoughts crashing against the weight of reality
putting my umbrella down, I can let them soak into my skin
not just hiding my tears, but washing them away
I don't think I'm afraid anymore
I leave my umbrella in the street
I'd rather walk in the rain

I think
The reason I felt
All tingly, when you asked,
"Ma'am, have you fastened your seat belt?"
was this Uniform of yours.
Why else would I blatantly stare
At you walking towards the cockpit,
Wondering if you'll look as good
Without it?

All my life
I sought
an angel.
And he appeared
in order to say:
"I am no angel !"

They scheme in the shadows of who they might hope to be.
Studying their weaknesses and teaching themselves how to live in solitude.
No one to worry about except for the self.
There's no weight to bare apart from ones own guilt.

Stay in the shadows,
For the light will only burn your eyes.

Gentle lady, do not sing
Sad songs about the end of love;
Lay aside sadness and sing
How love that passes is enough.

Sing about the long deep sleep
Of lovers that are dead, and how
In the grave all love shall sleep:
Love is aweary now.