It’s such a strange phenomenon
people writing poetry
desperately seeking not to be called a poet
like they are afraid of that label
like if they call themselves a poet
instantly you are held to a special standard
you are forced to be brilliant and insightful
each breath inhaling beauty
and exhaling wisdom and exuberance
or
maybe you think you have to sell all your clothes
wear only black and brood
contemplate death endlessly
while recognizing nothing as worthy
or interesting
only pain is real
if you say you are a poet…..

I am a poet.
I write poetry near daily.
I think about the way in which the leaves twirl
as they fall to the ground
consider children running through hoses
in the summer ~

I am a poet because there is no other name for me /

They talk of short-lived pleasure--be it so--
  Pain dies as quickly: stern, hard-featured pain
Expires, and lets her weary prisoner go.
  The fiercest agonies have shortest reign;
  And after dreams of horror, comes again
The welcome morning with its rays of peace;
  Oblivion, softly wiping out the stain,
Makes the strong secret pangs of shame to cease:
Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase
  Are fruits of innocence and blessedness:
Thus joy, o'erborne and bound, doth still release
  His young limbs from the chains that round him press.
Weep not that the world changes--did it keep
A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.

Lost in reality
caught up in a dream

You celebrated me
when I was a flower,
but you denied my roots.
When autumn came,
you did not know
what to do about me.
You could only understand
the surface, not the
barnacled fabric in the soil.
Like an empty glass of water,
you drained your feelings
and
let
your
eyes
close.
What  you do not see
is the mud I am.
You want glitter and shine.
You want transparency.
You will not
acknowledge
the
depth
I
can
offer.
You hollered in glee
when I was shallow.
But you were
confused
with
how
to
treat me
when I was depth.

We are all like that.
Truth is bothersome.
It lacks plastic.
We are afraid.
Always afraid.

Pick up the umbrella
and cover the head.
Protect the surface
from the drops of reality.

This is a subject worth a look,
Is love an excuse to write trite books?
Or is it so we can write silly songs,
Only because we get along?
Or is love,  magic and chemistry?
Between people like you and me,
A loving couple, a perfect union,
Does society fill us with this ambition?
Or is love only a fable, a myth?
Only part of humanity's monoliths?
I guess love is a normal human emotion,
All feelings are part of being human,
Yes, love appears in diverse ranges,
We, can, indeed, love total strangers,
I'll note this one in my poetry book,
The topic of love is worth a look!

This is a subject worth a look,
Is love an excuse to write trite books?
Or is it so we can write silly songs,
Only because we get along?
Or is love,  magic and chemistry?
Between people like you and me,
A loving couple, a perfect union,
Does society fill us with this ambition?
Or is love only a fable, a myth?
Only part of humanity's monoliths?
I guess love is a normal human emotion,
All feelings are part of being human,
Yes, love appears in diverse ranges,
We, can, indeed, love total strangers,
I'll note this one in my poetry book,
The topic of love is worth a look!