I had a dream, but it was not mine.
I drew my life, I stayed in the lines.
I played it well, this game of chance.
I even had a little romance.

I finished school, I kissed a boy,
And when it was time, I was not coy.
I had some kids, I raised them well.
I trained them to be like everyone else.

I had a husband, a dog, a cat.
It was a dream, that is a fact.
But it was not mine, and that was fine.
I tell myself that all the time.

Music is like an ocean,
each ebb and tide a different emotion.
And down below, in the deep,
a little of my soul I reap.
A part if me I thought asleep,
is woken with each wave that peeks.
A song, a line, a memory in time.
I pull them in on my fishing line.
Some notes flow smoothly with the tide.
Some notes break hard, a real rough ride.
Some songs bring joy, some bring pain,
but I am hardly ever maimed.
And when my compass, I do question,
Music shows me which direction.
So when my Captain sets sail for home,
I hope I leave a pleasant tone.

Grief is a monster, that lives under your bed.
And in quiet times, he creeps into your head.
Grief like a thief, comes to steal your mind.
And whatever he leaves for you, is very unkind.

A sorrow so deep, you feel you will drown.
And you cry and you cry, when no ones around.
Yet life goes on, and you go through the motions.
And you try your best, not to show your emotions.

Grief is always there, just under the surface.
He yanks at your heart, till you can't find a purpose.
But grief equals love, and love never dies.
So I'll find you some day, where the angels do fly.

I heard of a woman who lived in the hollow.
Her screams were so sad you could feel her sorrow.
There's a house in the woods, just north of the creek.
They say she still lives there, but she never speaks.

Her husband came home drunken and mad.
The baby was crying, what he done was real bad.
Some nights you can see her wading the creek.
She splashes the water; her baby she seeks.

They say you can hear, on clear starry nights.
A small baby crying, and a poor mothers fright.
But don't stay to long; he mourns for them too.
He walks through these woods, looking for you.

They say that he hung himself the very next day.
And a pact with the devil was what he had made.
To get back his child, he must do the devils bidding.
And he walks through these woods, taking the living.

You know poetry is like standing naked on a busy street. But in a way it's very freeing. I don't share my poetry with my freinds and family. I guess I'm kinda scared to know just what they'd think. It's kind of like my ***** little secret. Things I would never talk about in real life, I can lay to rest on paper.  Well that is if I can get to a peice of paper before I forget what's in my head. That happens quite often, but what can you do. I am well into my fifteys, and have the attention span of a nat. I think that's what I want to say.  I'm not quite sure how long a nats attention span is. Come to think about it nats can be pretty anoying.  God I hope I'm not anoying. Oh well what was I saying? Hey, can I get kicked off this site for aimlessly wandering through other peoples minds?  Oh, back to the point. I do think I have one. POETRY is kinda like walking up to someone on the street and asking," Do you like my underware?"....  Dam, I burnt the cookies.