How do people go to sleep at night?
   I've never understood, I must confess
   for only once the dawn exudes its light,
   does my fatigue subdue me with duress,

But when the sun is hid behind the clouds,
  or buried in the snowy mountain tops,
  my thoughts are racing, and they're very loud,
  and seldom is it that they ever stop,

For, something in my brain, I do suspect,
  is wired in a way that is amiss,
  so, I take evening hours to reflect,
  instead of diving into sleep's abyss
  
  But, oh! If only ****** grew on trees,
    perhaps, a night of rest would come with ease.

If i'm a sunflower
You are my sun
Your warmth & light enlightens me
& Bestows energy to my soul
When you rise up
I always turn to see your face
When you come to me in the morning
I really start growing,my darling
When you come to me in the noon
Floating,tossing & dancing in front of you
When your rays kiss me
I bow down my head and shy
When your brightness hugs me
I happily move and bloom
When your light shades
By God my face fades
When you hide behind the clouds
My crying voice louds
When you become sad
I also feel so bad
When in the evening you show red light
Me turn pale,old & lose my sight
When you go away to home
My loneliness starts killing me
When you say good bye
I finally wither,fall & die

By shaffu ....

Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle,
Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong.
Think rather,--call to thought, if now you grieve a little,
The days when we had rest, O soul, for they were long.

Men loved unkindness then, but lightless in the quarry
I slept and saw not; tears fell down, I did not mourn;
Sweat ran and blood sprang out and I was never sorry:
Then it was well with me, in days ere I was born.

Now, and I muse for why and never find the reason,
I pace the earth, and drink the air, and feel the sun.
Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season:
Let us endure an hour and see injustice done.

Ay, look: high heaven and earth ail from the prime foundation;
All thoughts to rive the heart are here, and all are vain:
Horror and scorn and hate and fear and indignation--
Oh why did I awake? when shall I sleep again?

wearing her tears
on my shoulder;
a badge of honor.

You left.
That should
have been expected
Because who has
Ever stayed for me.

I know that I
Can be difficult,
I wont use my bruises
As an excuse for myself
Because I have none.

But forgetting
Your name
Wont be easy.
It is on the lips
Of all my lovers,
It is the pressure
That makes diamonds,
It is the tectonic plates
Against my temples
Like a hangover.

You are in everything
That I am.
I hate that I cannot
Hate you.

Time will weather
Me away until
I am no longer rigid
At the mention of your name.

And I will forgive myself
For pushing you away.

What if I was beautiful?
The sun would kiss my face
And so would he.
I would be attractive
Like the snow wolf with its blue eyes
Everyone would want to pick me
Like a natural flower growing from the ground.
If I was beautiful
You would want to get to know me.
Are you sure you want to?
If I was beautiful
I would be no different.
Because I am.

no bison on the menu
at the Buffalo; this diner
never served it  

Big Mike, long gone
named it for the high shelf  
on the prairie behind it  

where Lakota learned
to stampede beasts over the edge, massacring
hordes without bow or sweat

the gully below,
their forgotten bone yard,
left little trace of them

save half a skull
Mike exhumed and hung on the wall
in the time of polio

before the wide whizzing interstates
when truckers still landed on his dusty lot  
their rolling behemoths content in pasture

in a new millennium, the cafe highway is but
an accidental detour; the shack guarded by thistles,
long departed the Detroit steel

the truckers now in the ground, their bones
free from pillage, but the Cyclops on the wall remains,
eyeing the vacant prairie they all once roamed

I never thought I would live this long.
I thought I would be dead by fifty.
Live hard, make a pretty corpse
Seemed, at the time to be nifty.
But, fifty came and went on by
And did so relatively quickly,
And here am I, not doddering
Not stooped over, not sickly.

I remember being that kind of kid
Who thought forty was old age.
The kind of oldster playing gramps
In the movies and on the stage.
Gray hair meant guys near death,
I needed not too much convincing.
Thinking of that, thirty years on,
These days, has me broadly wincing.

Looking back is more difficult
As eyesight loses credibility.
So much of what one sees in youth
Is forgotten so very easily.
I look at the photographs of me
Back when I had flattened abs.
Back when my flesh was taut
And hung on me in solid slabs.

I didn’t seem to have any limits
And could do anything I’d care.
Now a long walk is difficult and
My best friend is an easy chair.
Today I see life as a daily feat
That seems to come on quietly
Like a maid in a swank hotel.
It comes in and then out, silently.

I hasten to assure, I am not
Complaining about anything.
I have had more than my share
Of victories, spent my winnings.
It’s just that I never planned
To be an a senior citizen,
Entitled to cheaper entry fees,
An early-bird buffet denizen.

With amazement I nod whenever
Young people offer their seats.
And any time I run a bit too fast
My heart skips a couple of beats.
Then I walk by a mirror and see
That older person standing there
Who is amazed to still be here
Rocking a head of gray hair.