The thing about people who write
They can communicate so much better about everything
They may not know how to say it out loud
But they can write it out and it will explain everything
The thing about people who write
They are always writing
About their thoughts, feelings, life
They could write the most beautiful piece of work about something as simple as math
They could write the perfect poem about your giggle
They could create a beautiful song about how you squeak when your get tickled
They could write a novel about a kiss on the cheek
They can write anything about something
If it means something to them, they can do it
And it can be a painting of flowers that creates a beautiful poem
The thing about people who write
They are constantly writing
In their head, they are creating beauty with words
The thing about people who write
They have a special gift
And it is the gift of magical words

I have moved to a different drum
With odd and peculiar rhythms
Dancing awkwardly through life
On my two flat clumsy feet
It is not the way I chose
To step on innocent toes
But the wildness of my dance
Has had no easy flow
The blame lies entirely with me
It's a genetic thing, you see
I am no more than this
The son of the gypsy's kiss

                                By Phil Roberts

With his head in his hands
And his heart on his sleeve
He closes his eyes against the light of day
And against his quiet despair
He pretends it is not real

But part of him knows
Deep down amongst half-remembered dreams
Emotions that appear from nowhere
And linger
Every cell of him knows

He knows a loss without closure
A conversation without words
Dreams without endings
And hoping without hope

He hears a knock on the door
But no-one walks in
He puts his head in his hands
And his heart on his sleeve
He pretends it is not real

                                           By Phil Roberts

Into a poem
Feel the wetness of streaming prose
Wonder
If love shall be the towel
To dry away your tears
As one goes from here to over there
Young to old and old to wise and wise to demise
When the wine bottle tumbles from the table
Jump!
Catch the wine
If there are two hands entwined
Even a poet knows
Lay down the pen
And share that one glass of wine
Touch
The romance of time