i'm a flower;
you fall for the petals,
and the captivating scent.
you uproot me,
crush the stem,
forget to water me,
and wonder why i wilt.

I am the poem you wrote on the back of your hand,
The ink that was washed away,
Flown into the drain.
I am the idea you hurriedly scribbled on a napkin in a coffee shop,
But forgot to take with you.
I am the tune you could never hum right,
The page that fell off the hinge of an old book,
Collecting dust.

We're all dying to feel alive,
Are we the living dead?
We hate to love
But we fall in love anyway.
We wander just to get lost,
But we want to be found.
We spend our nights together,
But we feel more alone than ever.
We cover our ears,
Shout across horizons.
What's this sound?
Deafening silence.
Piercing through the noise of the world.

I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)

What is art?
Is it the expression of creative skill?
The application of imagination?

Is art the creation of beauty?
The birth of emotional power?
Or is art solely imitation?
A copy of something that is real?

Is art a fool’s attempt at immortality?
Angelic bodies immortalized within a frame,
Faces of eternal youth,
Fruit that is forever ripe,
Flowers in perpetual bloom?

Is art a source of calm in a chaotic world?

The world claims that it has too many writers,
But not enough scientists.
Everyone can be a writer,
But not everyone a scientist.
So cynical.

Now everyone is a scientist,
No one writes anymore,
No one cares to,
No one but I.
You’d think the world needs more writers,
Now more than ever.
So naïve.

The truth is,
The world only has room for science and progress,
Machine guns and machine men,
With machine hearts.
There is no space,
For poetry and love.
This is no place,
For us.