So many poems
and stories
have gone unwritten
due to fear of not being good enough

every day is a second chance
as the first is already lost,
every love is a second dance
as the first still plays in your thoughts,
every life: a second glance
at a past at present not worth its cost.

Luv

I tell you every day
That I Love You
Not out of habit
Or because I should
I say it because
With every fiber of my being
I Love You
When one of us leave this earth forever first
Whether it's you or I
I want you to know that
You were Loved unconditionally
With every beat of my heart
Deep down in my soul

If there comes a time
that you might lose me
Find me in my poetry

I could kid myself
and say that you are in me
but really

I am just trying
to force the issue by attempting
to conjure you

as well as delay the inevitable  

waterworks the aching
sickness
and the pain

so with that said
it is time to give you
and me the much needed

punctuation
we deserve
and just

end this!

whit howland © 2021

Lie to me.
Tell me that I am everything I never was.
Tell me that I am beautiful and watch me tremble and shake.
Look into my eyes and lie to my face, will you?

Why did I build my home on such
an unsteady foundation
of lies and insecurity?
Time and time again,
I swallow my grief
just to blink back tears and brush the truth away.
Stay where you are and do not come near.
Don't cause a land slide that will surely destroy me.
I will be crushed under the weight of so many lies
weakly supported by kind intentions.

Hide the truth for me if you love me truly.
Cover my eyes and whisper into my ears: you are beautiful.
Protect me with your lies.

I want to buy you every Forget-Me-Not
so that my name's the only one you remember.

I want to drive down highways, backroads, and forgotten paths, picking those wildflowers that you love.

Lilies and hydrangeas, and all the other fleeting pretty things,
I want to give them all to you.

After collecting every flower, and setting your world into
a wild bouquet, I want to just be there, with you.

Mountains are folded napkins
laid out on the cloth of the world
remnants of a picnic
that finished long ago