•run•

I'm writing on this water-stained page
to tell you how much I've missed you
since you've been away.
And I hope you know:
I wish I could have stayed.
But baby,
you never even met me halfway.

You've got a lot of nerve
to keep coming back;
things were going fine
as they were,
And then
Just like that -
you come running
and say you miss me, too.

**** you.
You must know
there's nothing I wouldn't do.

But honey,
you're no good for me,
you never were;
I guess we jumped the gun.

I'm better than what we've done -
And now it's my turn
to run.

I’m no author, novelist or poet.
I’m just Me,
And don’t I know it.
I don’t need to be classified,
As long as I’m writing, I’m satisfied.

Typing out words, line by line,
I don’t care if they don’t rhyme.
I don’t care if my verses don’t scan:
I’m not always an Iambic Man.

I just say what I gotta say,
I’m not worried about any pay.
Words come to me without much bidding,
The world of its evils I hope to be ridding.

I love to spread lots and lots of Love,
Bringing peace to all like a messenger dove.
Things of beauty bring joy, John Keats rightly said,
To make us sleep easy when we go to bed.

So I’ll paint what I paint,
And sing what I sing,
Just letting those words
Do their magical thing.

Paul Butters