Loneliness in the crowd,
I say what's this all about,

Searching for the answer, looking at the cloud,
I hear thunders that are loud,

I believe in the "moment",
As you and I got this place for rent,

Mind not where your life swings,
It's the luck that brings,
To you and me and all the beings...

It was just getting good
I was enjoying myself
My escape
But now I'm back to reality

I don't want to be home

Have you ever known a guy to write poetry?
She asks.
Yes.
Sweet poems and lyrics
Sonnets and Ballads
Epics and Limericks.
Words that bite into your skin like teeth.
I've know men that command words
Not speak them.
Words that dance upon the wind
But settle into your soul
Like stone.
I've known men
Not boys
Trying to grasp at words that fail.
Trying to impress the girls
with shy smiles and round cheeks.
Tonight I do not read poetry by a man.
I read words written on paper
Crossed out
And written in again
Never considering the heartbeat they create.
The way they feel when they hit upon your chest and burst.
Yes I've met a guy who writes poetry.
Just not tonight.

I went to the park today
and marveled at the ducks gliding across the pond.
Above the surface,
smooth sailing, graceful, serene.
When just below,
their webbed feet,
kicking like hell,
struggling to keep going.

Is this the part where I admit I have a problem?
Well at least a slight one, when it comes to poetry
Since it's all I ever think about
It's all I feel I need

There is never a situation
Where I'm not thinking of what next to write
You never know when the moment will hit you
Those perfect words needed to inspire

And the degree of concentration
When all of this occurs  
As I pour my entire heart, mind, and soul
Into every written word

Just ask friends and family who left me
That I didn't even notice they were gone
Until days later when I looked up
From the writing of another poem

I could be inside my house
With the four walls burning down
Concentrating on my creating
The next poem to astound

As I'm pounding out the verses
With firemen pounding on the door
I'll answer it eventually
Let me just jot down one line more

They could set off the big one
Wipe out half of the country
I'd be so intent on writing
I would barely feel the breeze

Yes, the world could collapse around me
And I would see nothing wrong
With my face pressed to the page
Writing down another poem

Even if I keeled over suddenly
From a major heart attack
I'm sure on my way to the funeral
I'd try and find a word to rhyme with that

So tell me do you think I have a problem?
When it comes to poetry?
When I even write a poem about it?
So others can enjoy the read