I was handed a questionnaire
And asked to fill it out the best I could
With #2 pencil in hand
I saw the questions were on love

I've never once questioned my love for you
I've studied hard, I've studied well
That's why the first box I marked off as true
When asked if I'd give you all of myself

It asked things like would it be alright
If I held you tight the rest of your life
I marked that box all of the above
Cause isn't that what you do for love

It then asked if love was meant to last
It talked of the future in view of the past
That question was adorned in essay form
I filled up one page but could have filled two more

I started off by writing
True love only looks straight ahead
The past is past, no need looking back
And should be buried along with the dead

Which means if you dig it up enough
The only thing it does is stink
And the buried past really has
No place in loves company

Once I got through the questionnaire
I felt good about the fact
I had honestly answered all the questions there
As I handed my #2 pencil back

From the multiple choice to the true and false
Along with the final essay
I folded it up, brought it home to you my love
For the final grade

This poem will certainly be a big hit
I'm throwing everything I've got and more into it
All the bells all the whistles all my poetic tricks
Rolling up my sleeves, into my open palm I will spit

This poem I'm pulling out all of the stops
Remove the plug at the bottom, raise the roof at the top
Fill in the middle with all that I've got
Blowing it all on the entire lot

This poem will either make me or break me
Lose me or save me, I'm thinking maybe
They'll love me or hate me, all want to date me
In Mardi Gras beads they'll want to drape me

This poem will embarrass all the other poems
Because this one poem will have it all going on
From the time it's conceived to the moment it's born
All other poems will concede to it's throne

This poem may even bring on the end
All the poets of today will turn in their pens
They'll be to afraid to write anything
As it will be the blue print to how a poem's written

Now that last thoughts got me thinking that it shouldn't be wrote
As it being the only poem is a scary thought
And how this single poem could yield so much power
I'd be crazy to set it free to dispose and devour

All this poem could do has really opened my eyes
So on second thought I'm not going to write
I'll lock up that thought shut the door tight
Another poem at this time I'll just have to find...

My birthday is coming up.
I don't want anything
But for you to get better
And so that the surgery succeeds.

I'd sacrifice my life for that to happen.

People tell me that what goes on the internet stays there.
Well then.
I'd like to say one thing.

If I were to unexpectedly die,
At my funeral,
I don't want people to be sad.
I want them to be happy.
Rather then mourn a death,
Just picture me traveling about somewhere,
Maybe in Shangri-la,
And instead,
Celebrate my life.
I can't stand seeing you sad,
Smile, dear.
It warms the heart.

Daddy somebody shot that man
I heard this eleven year old say
I didn't really understand at the time
I just knew a man was dead

But with the years that followed
I came to learn how much he meant
To this world in its great need
And how well that time was spent

He preached of equality, he preached of peace
As he spoke of man as one
He marched his way down city streets
Facing adversity with the face of love

He was done with all the hatred
That fills so many lives
To him color was a vision
Of equality in his eyes

A life so young, a life cut short
By the wicked in us all
Will you stand with me and follow him
Will you heed his righteous call

To call every man your brother
The way Martin Luther King Jr. did
To keep the vision of this visionary alive
A reality in which all mankind should live

Mike H. Excuse me, didn't we already do an interview?

Me. We did and although I asked some really hard hitting questions I feel your answers weren't up to par. Have you lost your edge?

MH. Lost my edge? Are you kidding? We spent hours on the interview!

M. Yea...that's kind of a ******.

MH. What are we going to do now?

M. Well personally I'm going to ask the same questions, your just going to have to up your game...

MH. Then should we get started...again?

M. Mike, I thought I'd never ask!

MH. Then take it away Mike!

M. So Mike it seems to me and I'm you so that would be us. Well we've been curious why every year in January you disappear from Hello Poetry.

MH. Well I like to take the time to refocus...

M. Epppp!!!

MH. What? What'd I say??

M. That's why I scraped the last interview....BORING!!! This is the new millennia and we're really not that interested in the truth.

MH. So should I talk about my being on the run from international spies?

M. Perfect!

MH. Or how while I was away I jet setted around the globe giving interviews to all the magazines about my world renowned poetry.

M. Do tell!

MH. And after that I was on a jungle safari and was kidnapped by that tribe of pygmies only later to be rescued by a jungle man calling himself Tarzan of the Apes?

M. You have been busy!

MH. But none of it is true!

M. Uh...your starting to bore me AND our mega readership again.

MH. Well after all that I canoed my way back across the ocean and here I am!

M. You know at times I truly amaze myself...

MH. Don't I though.

M. You know we should do these interviews more often. Hanging out with you otherwise can pretty much one...big...yawn.

MH. Did I mention the sharks?

Have you ever stopped to wonder
Where pocket lint comes from
Is it mass produced, does it just run loose
Or is it grown on a pocket lint farm

And are there tiny little farmers
With tiny little hoes
Who's time is spent planting pocket seed lint
In tiny little rows

Is that why so many pockets
Are lined in cloth of white
For the best in growing conditions
Letting in the perfect amount of light

But then you have to wonder
What the farmers do for rain
And if your always wet in the front of your pants
What would people have to say

And why go through all the trouble
Since apparently it has no use
Unless we hire tiny little tailors
In the making of pocket lint Leisure Suits

And if we do I'd like mine in baby blue
To wear at all the Bar Mitzvahs, Proms, and Wakes
I'm sure that once it catches on
It'll be the latest craze

There really must be some sort of purpose
In pocket lints grand design
Don't you ever wonder where it comes from
I myself think about it all the time

Before I begin, allow me to explain,
I too loved.. once,
so think of me not as some cynic-
nor as a master in the ways of love-
but rather as a keen observer-
now, that may mean I have nothing to offer you-
no insider knowledge-
no secrets of love-

But I do  know how to tell a true love story -

Interested?
Fantastic-
So let’s begin,

True love, if there is such a thing at all,
is like the thread that makes the cloth
you can’t tease it out-
you can’t extract meaning-
without ending up deeper in the web-
and it always remains-
hidden under layers -

In the end, that’s all you can really say about any
True love story-
They don’t generalize-
They don’t analyze-
They arent found-
They just… happen.

and that’s what makes them “true.”

But what is this coveted “love” -
the emotion?-
the act?-
the mentality?-

Love, is a constant state of illusionment-

A collective agreement amongst humans-
that it, whatever it may be,  can be treated as an excuse
for recklessness, irrationality, and misplaced strife-  

A quid pro quo  between two individuals-
to agree that they are doing something-
anything-
other than mindlessly drudging through life-

Now that is not to say that what love creates is pointless-
I said before, I have felt the embrace of love
Love festers between individuals for so long
it has no option-
but to mould the physical to itself-
and alter our personalities-

Characterized by spontaneity-
by indulgence-
by risk-
to love is the most dangerous experience in existence-
the act of being fully vulnerable with another-
while promising not to hurt them the same-

Love is characterized by vulnerability-
and the constant fear of being hurt-

So you want to know how to write a true love story?
be honest-
dwell not on the “romantic” blindfolds that keep us irrationally seeking our partners-
dwell not on the on the memories of a love that blossomed-
reveal the core of love -

A true love story comes from gut instinct-
A true love story, comes from experience.
A true love story, if truly told, makes the stomach believe

So I said I loved once,
allow me to elaborate-

I too have felt the “butterfly stomach”
- where the insides of the lovestruck turn on their host and manifests the emotional significance of meeting “the one”

I too have spent the day daydreaming...
-Lost in the thought of “the one”, seeking brief breaks from reality in my mind between moments of  utter normalcy

I too have melted into a puddle of emotion….
-lying next to “the one” as we slowly spill more and more of the secrets that bound us as individuals, joining a spirit much larger than ourselves-

I too have felt... invincible-
-to know that I’ve found something more significant than myself. Something that replaces the fear of the future.. and makes it something to look forward to.

Yes, I too have fallen in love.
and I did just that-
I fell.





..And that is my true love story-

Have  I ever told you- I still have your boutonniere?
Perched proudly upon my poetry books~
All of the memories of "Us" may have been stored-
hidden-
in a box solely for those memories
but that flower stands proudly,
untouched from the date- May 3rd

Fragile as it may be ( now dehydrated )
It remains a symbol of our love -
Filled with beauty, and fantasy-
but now dried out-
yet I still have it

Should I throw it away?
Forget and abandon it-
Or keep it as a memory?
and risk it growing on me
The longer it stays
the more questions arise...

Do you still have yours- Or is it gone forever?
*Do withered flowers lose their beauty?