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

all it took
was for you to look at me
to remind me of all the reasons
why i fell in love

like the leaves falling from the trees, baby im here falling apart. i looked for you in every place you told me you loved me, but i found nothing but broken promises and memories you didn't bother to take with you. winters come, and like the seasons, you changed too.

for so long i fought to protect you from
the world, to hold your hand every time it
stretched its out for yours, but i realize now
i failed miserably.
not because i didnt try, not because i
wouldnt have given myself up for your
sake, but because you needed to be
saved from yourself.
i realize now that i can no longer save
you, and baby im sorry i let you down.
im sorry, im sorry, im so ******* sorry.
im sorry and i know i keep saying it, but
it's all i know how to say anymore.
every time i look down at my hands
all i see is your name written in all the connecting lines of my palms, so i shut my eyes.
but that never mattered.
i still see you.
in every ******* thing.
if im still enough i can still feel your
arms around me, when my body grows
lonely and yearns for connection.  
out of all the people i could have loved,
i made my mind up to love you, to
become one, with you.
and i hope someday that makes
you feel enough.