I’m no author, novelist or poet.
I’m just Me,
And don’t I know it.
I don’t need to be classified,
As long as I’m writing, I’m satisfied.

Typing out words, line by line,
I don’t care if they don’t rhyme.
I don’t care if my verses don’t scan:
I’m not always an Iambic Man.

I just say what I gotta say,
I’m not worried about any pay.
Words come to me without much bidding,
The world of its evils I hope to be ridding.

I love to spread lots and lots of Love,
Bringing peace to all like a messenger dove.
Things of beauty bring joy, John Keats rightly said,
To make us sleep easy when we go to bed.

So I’ll paint what I paint,
And sing what I sing,
Just letting those words
Do their magical thing.

Paul Butters

Sitting on the rocking chair
With wrinkles and grey hair
Laugh lines and tear stains
Happy memories and growing pains
Yet when I look in my blue eyes
I see the dark and light I recognize
The ups and downs with which I am familiar
Yet in another’s eyes there is always something similar

I set out on the grandest journey of all
The journey to find myself and my soul
The greatest question: “Who am I?”
Makes the mightiest men cry
Makes the feeblest of men smile
This question of unknown guile

I journey through the paths of my past
A fear and a darkness that last
A faint shell lies in the rubble of the road
A skeleton lies there crushed by its load
I walk on through with many tears
I see a man lost in a forest of fears
As I attempt to leave it behind
There is a strong grip I find
On me compelling me to stay
Reminders are there telling me I’m okay

I sprint to the edge and jump off the mountain
I escape the past but I fall again
In the present I am still the skeleton of old
A shadow of a man that is far from bold
Madness has stricken me to doubt
Overwhelmed I shout
I need a break from my thoughts
Yet my display is all for nought

I fall asleep and see a picture
Something that I never knew for sure
A hope for a life of pleasantries
Seems so full of vacancies
Searching for someone understanding
But go further into this maddening
I ramble on about the secret of joy
Yet all still I only see this boy
How can they break through?
They need the God so true

dating a writer
is like guessing the weather.
you think you know what you'll get,
but you never do.

you never know
because

she'll create a hero
from your weaknesses

and she'll write a great character,
from every last flaw.

she'll create a thousand plots  
from your worst nightmares.

she'll take every last thing you hate
and create something you'll love.

she'll turn your anger
into confessions of adoration,

and she'll make you,
everything you're not.

but worst of all,
she'll leave you wondering-
is it you she's in love with,
or things she's created from you?

but here's the beauty of it:

if you date a writer,
you'll never die.

my fingers have become bored with
the quicksand of routine
they prefer to dance erotically over my typewriter
frolicking like naked ballerinas
over an ancient stage
spilling their secret thoughts
onto blank page,
after their day job
threaded together
over my lap,
or bending over to
reveal the contents
of my burlap sack

they have taken instead
to jumping over cracks
in the nothing of night
stifling the sound of silence
with assortments of clicks and clacks
punching in the perfect pitch of keys
to leave Beethoven blind
from this symphony of notes combined

and just like that at last
they have unfolded some rhyme
unachievable with ink and pencil,
without the stencil of time
dictating to work inside the lines