"Your poetry is lonely," he said,
"Yet you write to feel less alone."

"I know," I answered the way wind answers
a hot afternoon jogger on the highway's edge.
There was a silence, the only noises were
the keys of his old typewriter

click clacking away at themselves,
"I'm sorry," I sobbed. He got up
and walked to the door, put his hand
on the doorknob, opened his heart

and faced me once more,
"It wasn't meant to hurt you, Love.
That's the last thing she said to me
and life is too precious to waste
thinking everyone's out to get you."

With that he left me to my thoughts,
replaying the scene again and again,
maybe I should get a typewriter myself
to write my story just as powerfully
as he wrote his. To be in some young person's
dream, inspiring them the way he does
for me. . .

You hold a pencil in your hand
one ready for soft gray lines
before promising me anything;
though it is also more than capable
of engraving our entire life.

There is a sort of passion
in everything you do;
however it does fade away
sometimes slowly, preventing
mistakes too dark to erase.

As you drag that pencil across
the rough, pulpy paper again
I am coming up with the story to
tell on the same page when
others dare to pretend that they

understand.

Someday your work will be in
all the finest museums covering
ceilings in a million mausoleums
and yet that will not be the end.

Because one day they will know
your name the way I do.
I just hope that you remember
I loved you before you were cool;
you are my brightest star
and I would do anything for you.

When you finish this page
let me see it before moving on
I think I can inspire the next one
with lines showing the depth of you
and the contrast in me.

Someday we will be your
most famous work of

artistry.

Don't tell a poet what to write,
don't tell an artist what to paint.
Trust me, that just isn't right,
and it doesn't make you a saint.

Just don't do it,
if you care so much
don't keep it a secret,
release with your own touch.

Don't tell a gamer how to play,
don't tell a ghost how to cry.
Trust me they'll have a lot to say,
and they won't even have to try.

You say you love me,
so let me express what I think.
You have to let me be free,
and I love the taste of ink.

Don't tell a girl how to dress,
don't tell a guy how to throw.
It only creates a bigger mess,
and takes you where you don't want to go.

It is the worst idea a person could get,
it's really not at all that smart.
Just give them space and let
them express with their own heart.

For Alice (Who used to be me)

I have believed in fairy tales
Once I walked in worlds of rosy hue
I lived in Wonderland and Counterpane
dreaming dreams I knew would all come true

Morning turns to noon day to evening all too soon
Oz can turn to ashes in just a day
Princes return as frogs to their lily pads
Wonderlands Alice is a matron growing grey

No one comes to kiss the princess as she sleeps,
Knights in shining armor ride no more.
Tinker bell is dying with no one to believe.
The Mad Hatter is laughing at the door.

The dragon is not slain but lives in glory
Roxanne always marries Christian after all
Cinderella sits forever midst the ashes
Too late for Alice the door is much to small

The Emerald City's walls are bottle glass
And reality has crushed them neath its heel
The yellow brick road leads nowhere very quickly
And Alice knows that lonely is the only thing she'll feel

oh! let alice return to Wonderland again,
Away from the mud and slime outside the looking glass.
Life is much to large without that tiny door,
And she would seek the March Hares party where time will never pass.

She anchors me
And yet at the same time
Sets me free.