The world has turned it's back on me
with their threatening glares
as if I were a*  Monster
and what pains me most,
is the fact that you have also
*become one of them

you are made of lines;
straight, or curved
sometimes
                even
parabolic.

For three nights
the Moon
has been Sun,
is tonight and will
forever be,
day to me.

WHAT THE **** CHANGED                              
WHY DIDNT IT WORK                                              
WHY DONT I EXIST TO YOU                                    
WHEN YOU EXIST IN EVERY                                  
******* THING IN THIS                                    
STUPID ******* WORLD                                    
I SEE YOU EVERYWHERE                                    
I SEE YOU IN THE ******* SKY                      
WHEN IM SMOKING LONELY CIGARETTES
AT 4 IN THE MORNING                                      
I SEE YOU IN THE STRANGERS THAT              
WALK PAST WITH BLANK FACES                      
BUT WHAT HURTS THE MOST IS THAT          
I CANT EVER SEE YOU AGAIN.    
                      
S.W

I met a scarecrow today.
He made me look him in the eyes
And tell him 'things will get better.'
My first reaction was to lie,

So I told him what he wanted to hear.
I've never met a scarecrow born with fear.

He didn't look very satisfied
With what I had to tell.
He said that he couldn't believe me
If I didn't believe myself

And with that he sent me on my way.
I've never met the scarecrow since that day.

tomorrow is not promised

only predicted

but do not blame the weather man

if it is not 75 and breezy

hurricanes come along

so always carry an umbrella

but don't always walk around with it open

or else you'll never meet the sun

Pressed between the pages of an old diary
An age lightened rose
Lies soap bubble thin
A claret echo lingers in once vibrant petals
Like the smudge of a first kiss
On a clean shaven cheek
Does the rose remember the blush?
Of the first love
Does it remember the warm wet earth?
That held it close
The scent still clings to its petals
Does it remember the morning dew?
Trickling down its leaves
Like droplets of liquid laughter
Spilling from my eyes
As I held it to my face

First love fades
Like the flowers crimson hue
But this rose
Like a dear old friend
Remembers

TL Hughes (Boehm)
1987