don't tell me what to do
my life is mine
it doesn't belong to you

i don't care about what mistakes i'll make
just get off my back
this is something i can't take

stop telling me how to laugh
i don't give a crap
just leave me alone
is it too much to ask for that

i get that its hard but try to let go
if you don't then how will i ever know

Once, I had dreams
Of what could be
Of you, of me.

Could we be?
Would we be?
Should we EVEN be?

Questions pondered,
Wonders wondered,
Of love and romance,
Our bodies, in a dance.

You, my dear rose.
I, your sweet peach.
Gay could we be.
You and I, simply carefree.

But dreams fade like the end of day,
Left me to deal with my heart gray.
My true love, you did not desire.
My passions burned, like white hot fire.

They overwhelmed you.
I do not blame you.
I still cherish you.

My love is still yours.

You were the one I thought I loved,
the one who I thought would be mine,
to have and to love and to kiss and to hug,
and to hold and to own and to take.

But you weren't mine to own or to control,
or the object of my diseased affections.
You were your own person, with your own wants,
your own desires, and your own feelings
that didn't involve me or my dreams, and that's okay.

You owed me nothing, yet I made you feel you did,
we were friends at one time, and maybe we could
have been something more had I been aware.
But I was young and foolish and didn't know what
it meant to truly love somebody.

I thought I loved you, but I didn't.
I cared for you and longed for you,
and wanted to be with you, but
I didn't truly love you. I didn't consider
you or what you wanted, and just
tried to make you feel my way.

I let my feelings became dark and
obsessive and get the better of me, and
you were the one who suffered, not me.
It wasn't right of me, and I apologize.
I haven't seen you in many years,
and I wonder if I will ever get a chance,
to properly express my sorrow for
the way I acted and the way I treated you.

If our paths ever do cross once more,
I wish we'll be able to on terms friendly,
talk of our pasts and of our futures,
but if you're not interested, I don't blame you.

I didn't by good do you,
so why would you, the same, do?

You silly guy, you little man,
you don't gotta play the clown,
don't gotta dance their dance,
or do tricks to act like you're cool.

All you doing is playing their fool,
when will you think for yourself?
When you will realize you're best off
being yourself completely, with no fear.

I know it's scary being in this world,
and when you're on your own, it's
even scarier. But you don't need them
to feel safe and secure in yourself.

You don't gotta lie to impress me, man.
I know you're great just the way you are,
I know you're smarter, funnier, kinder
than they're ever going to be.

Your potential is limitless, relentless,
when will you realize this. man,
that those blood-suckers just gonna ****
you dry, and leave you when they bored.

You don't gotta be their puppet,
don't gotta let them pull your strings,
or tell you what to do and think,
they got you by a rope leading you on.

You're a hell of a guy, this I know,
but this I don't think you really know,
maybe that's why you let them treat you
like some kind of children's toy to amuse.

And yeah, I know. I'm telling you
what to think in a way, too, and you
don't gotta listen to me. But know,
that I do want what's best for you.

Deep down, I really care about you,
and want to see you happy and free,
not needing they approval to give you peace.
Not needing to falsify just to fit in.

You can do best just by doing you,
cause the you I see when you're happy,
and not around those soul-suckers
is the best you I ever did know.

A question, a query for you,
and a word for every writer
who ever penned a poem or
who wrote a rhyme, if you'll
permit me the time to ask.

Why do you write?

What compels you to put
pen to paper, put pencil
to parcel in such a way?
What drives you to do
these things or to
write these words that
may never be read?

It's a query, a quandary
that'll get a hundred
answers depending on
who you choose to ask,
but certain themes
will show their faces.

Whether it's to outpour pain,
or to try and bring joy,
a kind of temporary glee,
to someone who might need it,
or just as a way to tell
a story of the heart or mind,
you'll find a connecting bind.

People who write want to invoke.
They want to invoke emotions,
or invoke thoughts in minds,
or invoke inspiration in souls,
or invoke true love in heart.
The goal is to invoke, and
to connect with the words one writes.
It's an impulse universal,
a goal of us creatures social.

I know that would be my answer,
if I asked myself the same.
If just one word out of one poem
out of the hundreds to be written
could connect to just one person
in the entire world and inspire
them to write something greater
than I could ever hope to conspire,
then I'd know that I had made it,
and that I could retire and die young,
cause through the words I wrote,
I'd possess a life eternal.

For to write is to invoke is to connect is to inspire is to live,
is to be human.

Bits and pieces
Words and phrases
A title or an end
A rhyme in the middle
A poem a prose a song maybe
Metaphors and sarcasm,
A flow in the tone
Colors, places
A warm thought or faces
A pen a paper
A quiet place to think
These are battles of thoughts
In the mind of a poet