I can not call myself a poet
with any good faith
I respect it too much
the raw words which shred out of me
come from a place
which I don't know
I didn't put them there
and though you don't know it
I'm pretty sure
that you wrote all of my poems
it just so happens
that the pen was clutched in my hand
the keyboard just happened
to be within my reach
but you're more than a muse
transcending language
you are a well
of emotional explanations
my guardian angel
pulling my strings from behind the scenes
if my poems are beautiful
it is only because you are too
if they are ugly, pointless, obscene, *****
it is because that's how you make me feel
you are a cathedral
which I can't besmirch
I hesitate to attach my name to this
what's a name anyway?
you are a poet
and you don't know it
you wrote this

It is time to let it go.
It is time to watch it fly away.
So see it down the drain, distant and far.
Your hate,
Your rage,
Your intolerance,
Your racism.
Let it die,
Watch it whither and become dust.
Your depression,
Your mistrust,
Your curse,
Your sorrow.
I am beginning with me.  What about you?

frozen lakes
leafless trees
blank faces
numb
everything numb
self medicated
desensitized
he misses the feeling of tears
he misses the feeling
disconnected
and the life boats
are slowly going out of sight
people, people everywhere
with no thoughts to think
he looks for something
which can crack the shell