I talk of love
and you talk of sadness
maybe I'm really
a bad listener.

I wish I can
really reach down
into the depths
where you are.

I feel like I have
to go a thousand miles
deep down where
you buried your heart.

I didn't even know
if I would stand a chance.
I hate uncertainty.
I hate me for wanting you still.

Lugging overstuffed baggage,
          packed away midst
       unwritten poetry's carry on

Cyclonic is your kind of adjective;
I suppose I was born to love storms
like you.

I could never really keep my hands to
myself. Nor my mouth. Or my words.

I love you like hurricanes love destruction
and mornings love reckoning.

Do you ponder this life
The meaning of it all
Why we exist to suffer
I do, I always have to

The pain of going on
Dragging through day by day
Wondering does it improve
Will hope come to rescue me

But alas, here I will write
My healing, my feeling
Through the darkest, to the light
Just a poet, nothing more

The three toed sloth
Rhymes with goth
Or is it oath

Moves slowly

Sometimes algae grows on his head
Joni Mitchell didn't mean him
when she said

Wild things run fast
Randy, three toed sloth,
he'd come last

Once a week he climbs down from his tree
And that's to have a poo
and ***

Now even sloths get amorous
But *** is tricky up a tree
He moves too quick, he's not used to it
And hits the ground involuntarily

Randy broke his arm
Some people fixed it
with titanium

So he can resume his slothful days
But he's more careful now
in his loving ways

Mutual destruction,
    ultimately assured
      by complicit lovers
   who pursue duplicity