You are Sherlock Holmes
But so am I.
You are Watson, I am too.
Neither is greater than the other,
Yet were both superior in different ways,
You with your mind,
Me with my words,
You with your understanding,
Me with my cries.
You never once complained,
But said you were there for me.
You understood right off the bat,
Why I was apologizing so much.
You knew my past,
I told you. Willingly, because I trust you.
Do you remember that last day, of camp, we hugged, and I remember having to stand on tip toe to reach your shoulders,
You're the youngest but the tallest.
From then on you had my back,
And I thought maybe I was
Saddling you with too much.
But the yoke seemed light to you.
So my best friend, I love you.
Never forget me, and I will never forget you.
I trust you,
Thank you for listening,
And believing in me.

There's never any warning when
An idea hits you.
Bam!
Pop!
Zap!
Wow, it's like love at first sight.
Both are so rare,
Epiphanies are like lightning.
One minute they're there,
And you see their shape,
A tangle of nerves,
Cracks in the sky,
And the next you look at nothing.
Where did it come from?
That I don't know.
They won't come with a warning.
You just better be ready with an open jar waiting for the lightning to
Strike so you can catch
Your sparkle.
Forever.
Hold it tight,
Don't let it go,
For when the lightning strikes,
You'll know

I hate you
The words floating from my
Brain to the page
Like bees to their hive
Those words hate you .
My mouth drips with disdain for you
Like when you drip saliva after
Biting into a juicy peach
Hate.
I hinted
I should have written signs in
The sky.
You wouldn't have even seen those.
Even if I wrote it on my forehead
You would have been stone blind
Leave me alone.
I hate you.

His hand slid around her waist,
The moonlight shone upon
The trees, spotlights,
She could feel his warm breath
Caressing her skin.
She leaned in,
He closed his eyes,
He leaned in,
She closed her eyes,
And wow, something
Electric.

Am I not a poet?
Yet poets speak,
Ere the moon doth move
In her heavenly orb
Or Jove doth sit upon his golden
Thronez
Poetry is the fruit of love,
Nay passion.
For I love the flowers
The temperant wind in May,
Yet I do not write on those subjects,
Yay passion is the fruit of love.
Ere I spake to mine own heart
It did grow the delicate fruit
That called itself poetry.
And indeed I call mine self poet
And writer
And I am one.
Nay to those foul tempered men
Men of rank,
Yet there's more rancor to them
Than ranks of their own.
They do not believe
And yet poet am I.
And I write and they listen not.
Fool fool they are
Fool fool I was.
Am I not a poet?
Nay they will never believe.
They believed in Shakespeare
And am I not he?
Nay I am a poet
Humble
Not a playwright
Not a bard.
Not he whose words are held as celestial alone
I call mine self a poet
And a poet I be.

Ever feel lonely?
I just want a soul
To talk to.
I'm in
Pitiful
Wretchedness.
I want to talk.
Someone listen
Let me learn about you.
I'm a wretch
A pitiful wretch.
Talk to me

Considered the staple of life
Is nothing more than ground up
Grain from
The ground.
Bread,
What so many peasants fought for in
France and Russia
Is nothing more than
Carbohydrates smushed together
Bread,
What everyone eats today,
Is nothing more than gluten free,
Wheat or multigrain.

But could some thing so simple
Be so important?