My poems are garbled thoughts moulded into a predictable structure

                                                      ­if
                   i
                                     change
                                                          ­     what
             is
                            expected



does that mean my writing is worthy of praise?

I am already dead,
just too lazy
and apathetic
to make it official.

I wonder what secret
The trees whisper to the breeze?
Do the birds hear that secret
And announce it in their song?

Does the wind hold it
And drop it in the seas?
Does the sea speak it out
And share it with the stars?

Do the heavens then resound
With the secret of the trees?

And the clouds,
Oh yes! Those clouds
Blue, black and grey
Is that why come rushing?

Across the seas to caress
With gentle rain the trees
And whisper,
"Heaven knows your heart,
There are no secrets from God."

The trees smile and sway
Fulfilled and complete in love.

one year has gone by
and he isn't sick of me yet

Persuasive noises —
But when you offered your ears
Then I was convinced

Does it end here;
in my hands;
where it began,
inside my mind,
where the war
would be silenced
******
Or would it be pausing
to once begin
when I have no defense