As I read your poetry
I wonder if it's true
Do the demons that help in rhyme
Really have a hold of you

And is the one you say you love
Not returning you the favor
In the poems that you pen
Is this all your life's behavior

Does your father really raise his fist
While your mother screams
As alcohol flows freely in your life
Or is it just poetry

Are you on the verge of suicide
And do you truly cut yourself
Do you feel that worthless in your life
Is what you write a cry for help

As I read your poetry
It often sets me off to wonder
Do you write about yourself
Or do you write about another

Crazy never looks good on anyone
Especially us
We are chaos
And you are poison
Inside me like a disease
Yet still your laugh awakens my soul
Darling there are two hearts on the floor
One is mine
And *both are yours

I do nothing about the sunrise
It just happens
Like moments and days
On and on
There is a rhythm if not a theme
I do nothing about the theme

I did nothing to be born
It just happened
Like tides and moons
It was easy
I was there at the right time
All I had to do was be there

I know nothing about our fate
Though it exists
Like time and death
Always there
There is a fact if not an end
I know nothing about the end

THE END

                 By Phil Roberts

I read a poem about love
And left my things for someone to steal
Because I did not have a notebook on hand
To write about you

I told my roommate, "Just needed this."
I told my sister, "Yeah, I've heard that song."
I hadn't had tea for hours but I shook
To write about you.

I had to say somehow
How I wore your necklace every day
I had to say that there's a playlist titled, "****
**** ****" about how I feel about you.

I had to write about this one secret thing
That I've only ever lied about
Or said so honestly
That you didn't even notice.

Friends say "I love you" all the time.

When you say it I pretend that you're not 24,
That you hope I don't believe you,
That I don't understand,
When you say, "I love you,"
That I'm that one good thing you say
You don't want to mess up.

I pretend you shake
To write about me.

'Q

Three sang of love together: one with lips
  Crimson, with cheeks and ***** in a glow,
Flushed to the yellow hair and finger-tips;
  And one there sang who soft and smooth as snow
  Bloomed like a tinted hyacinth at a show;
And one was blue with famine after love,
  Who like a harpstring snapped rang harsh and low
The burden of what those were singing of.
One shamed herself in love; one temperately
  Grew gross in soulless love, a sluggish wife;
One famished died for love. Thus two of three
  Took death for love and won him after strife;
One droned in sweetness like a fattened bee:
  All on the threshold, yet all short of life.