Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed.
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers. . . .
How did it go?
How did it go?

Men seldom make passes
At girls who wear glasses.

My land is bare of chattering folk;
  The clouds are low along the ridges,
And sweet's the air with curly smoke
  From all my burning bridges.

I could write a thousand words
To dedicate to you,
And every single word I wrote
You’d hold no doubt is true.
For every single paragraph,
And every single start,
I’d write for you in no less than
The ink of my own heart.

When you write
Do you think of what to say?
Do you aim to see a certain way?
Are you careful with your words?
Slipping in a secret password?

Do you even care to rhyme?
Or are you frugal with your time?
Do you want to send a message?
Or perhaps a foreboding presage?

At the end of the day
A poem is a poem
Even one as simple as this
Even if it falls flat.

Like this.

Going through the motions,
A corpse on puppet strings.
Showing no emotions,
Too wooden for such things.
One day I'll be locked away
Inside my wooden crate.
Till that day I'll dance and sway;
A much more awful fate.

Deep inside, and petrified,
Within my soul is cyanide,
Sitting, waiting patiently
For chances to escape from me.
For this reason it seems decent,
Fit to logic, moral reason,
That I keep my soul contained
And every single part arranged
Behind a face I've froze in place.
Dull of sense, of thought, of taste.
Trapped inside is where resides
My awful soul of cyanide.

Birds of a feather,
Not unlike me,
Love fine weather
(When it’s pouring tea).
Manners, wine and dining, too.
Mantis, llama, kangaroo.

Overmade, they do make over.
Things so brittle like the rover
Sent to Mars, the Milky Way,
Bounty, sneaky in its way.

Inbetwixt the words they utter,
They choose bread over the butter.
Frying French and grilling Jerry,
Jamming jars of juicy berry.

Duty-bound, they bound off duty.
Flock together! Fly, my beauties!
Plumes all owned. And not one borrowed.
Standing still amidst the horror…

Jokes aside, and folly ousted,
Peace preferred to putrid bloodshed,
They, like me, are hard to find…
Seems, at last, I’ve lost my mind!