There is a countable
distance between
the silence
where I sit
and the street
where I see
a mobile cacophony
of pedestrians
of various speeds
and multiple gaits.
From singular  
to numerous bodies
together and apart.
A part of me wants
to join them
apart needs
to avoid them.
So I count the distance
between voices
and my thoughts
silently
hush now
urging them all to stop
and embrace the nearest one
and say without words
life can be beautiful
if we allow.

I  relate to you
veterans of love
comrades of heartache.
We are sisters and brothers in arms
soldiers of romance.
We are in the same platoon.
The lines of poetry we cross
are our dogtags of the relationships
the victories,
losses and wounds
from many a battle fought.
We the scarred,
the hardened,
the sacrificed.
Some of us are/were shell shocked,
some too numb or scared to fight again.
We were recruited on an endless tour
and we will march on
to win the war of love

I write, but I am not a poet
I paint, but I'm no artist
I read, but I am no scholar
I have dreams, but I'm not a visionary
I create, but I'm not an inventor
I pray, but I'm far from being holy
I ponder, but I'm not a philosopher
I hate violence, but I'm not a pacifist
I am not unique, but I am uniquely me.
Though there's many things I'd like to change
for now
I just want to be

Our behaviours are reactions to our perceptions of situatuons
There may not always be a best option
but most problems have a solution.
For those that don't
we can make resolutions
when things get out of our control
we can learn to control our reactions,
our behaviour and self-perceptions.

So happy I could run
just to keep up with my dreams,
Teaseing gravity with each foot spring,
knowing I could leap to the clouds
if I wanted to.
But then i'd have to leave the world where you walk and lay down,
So I stay as close to you as distance will allow.
Is each drop of dew
the
residue of the wakeful night missing you
while you sleep,
is the horizon line the eyelid of dawn creeping open just to look at you?
I'm so happy I could run because the touch of earth confims you are real,
like a pinch for confirmation or a kick from a mule.

I love you to bits
but simetimes you're a *****,
and I can be a real ****.
Then we kiss
and get over it.
Love is constant,
but not constantly
filled with moonbeams, candle light and love making most sensually.
Sometimes it is dull,
or falls into routine.
We all **** and snore,
but that don't make nice poetry.

Love rocks