Would anyone really care,
If I vanished without a trace?
If my screams echoed the hallways,
If briny tears stained my face?

Everyone is bonded so strongly,
How can I join these ties?
Will I always be an outsider,
Seen as nothing more than a fly?

What am I doing wrong?
Can you help me understand?
Do I not deserve your kinships,
What’s wrong with who I am?

*I want for someone to care,
To catch me if I fall.
Because if no one cares about you,
Do you exist at all?

It rains.
A truffled scent
glitters
in dead leaves,
naked trees.
Transudation
into the depths
of the night.

A poet wants...
    Someone who adores everything they've ever written
    (because it means they adore us)
But a poet needs...
      Someone who's honest, who tells us when it's not our best work
      (because it makes the good work even more special)
A poet wants...
    Someone to hold close every night. Someone who loves to have poems breathed into their collarbone while they sleep
     (because it inspires long love poems)
But a poet needs...
      Someone who spends a few nights away. Someone who forgets to call occasionally
       (because it inspires real poems)
A poet wants...
    Everything to be perfect. To be able to edit and rewrite life as it happens, so we never have to feel pain
    (because then we wouldn't have to feel embarrassed about the unshared poems in our journals)
But a poet needs...
    Pain. Imperfection. Mistakes. Life.
     (because it allows us to write to feel to forgive to learn. To bleed out our heartbreak with ink and parchment. To reach out to each other with words)
All because a poet thrives on the difference between *want and **need

The ability to write poetry is the ability to understand life
To know it's not always about being the best
That it's not always about who can do what
Poetry is emotion
It is the silent words that lurk in our minds
It is our unsaid weaknesses exploited to their full potential
Which then makes it our strengths
It is the bridge that connects us to the mortal world
It is the proof that we are human
That we can cry
That we can laugh
That we can have remorse...
To us poet it is so much then just words on a piece of paper
It is our heart and our pride
As poets we all have our reasons why we write
Because we all come from our different backgrounds
Some of us have lost sight of the light
Other bath in it
There are even some who sit upon the border because they can't make up their mind
But as poets we all have one thing in common
We write because we are not immortal
We write because poetry is our life
We write because  poetry is our hope
And if we didn't have it we'd all be in a different place
Most likely a place beyond darkness
Even if the reason we write is joy
What's the point of being happy if everyone else is not
So we write to share
That's what it means to be a poet

Christmas spirit, where have you disappeared to?
I remember as a child
Awaiting the day
With so much delight and excitement within my heart
The night before
Sneaking outside to leave a few carrots for the reindeer,
A special plate of biscuits left
Beside the Christmas tree
For dear Santa Clause
And making a bet
With my best friend
Protesting that Father Christmas was real
And that I'd stay up until 12
To see the red cloak
Come to sight
However,
To my dismay
I could not stay up so late
And so I awoke
Alas, not beside the Christmas tree
Where I fell asleep
In sweet reverie
No, in my bed
With a million
Dazzling thoughts
Running through my head

And then a thought
Today was Christmas
And Santa obviously would've come
And so I rushed
Rushed to my precious green tree
To find presents just for me
And I'd unwrap
Without a glance at the card
Seeing my mother's gaze
And her sweet smile
As I giggled at the gifts
Like a giddy clown

Excitement
Chatter
Joy and love
These are the perfect words
I remember
Of the Christmas
I once knew and loved

But, now the reverie has seemed to pass
Where's the Christmas spirit gone?
For now I am an adult
and I must behave like one
"You can't believe in such foolery anymore, young one"

Christmas used to be exciting
Something I'd look forward to all year
However, now I sit with the memory etched in mind
And I wonder
What on earth has become of the Christmas cheer?
For now I sit at family gatherings
Eat, drink and-
And
And
that's it.

I miss my childhood
Where I believed in everything
Myths were real
And the stars knew everything
They knew it all
I believed in the second star to the right
In magic and in flight

But for now I sit
And I ponder about
The long forgotten Christmas spirit.