Excuse me
Mr. Poetry
May I ask a question
Of you please before I leave

It's something that's
Been on my mind
For longer than
The longest time

Why I'm just a simple poet
If you must know the truth
But I promise that I'll try hard
To give a good answer to you

So go right ahead now
With what you have to say
Do your best in all of this
Don't be shy, fire away

I was just wondering
And this may sound dumb
But where in your poetry
Do all your ideas come from

What ticks the tock
Inside your head
Is there a subject
You haven't met

I'm not really sure
Of just where it starts
Perhaps the tiniest of sparks
Deep inside the heart

Or a tiny voice
Somewhere in the mind
Feeding me what I need
In the daily rhymes

Are you kidding me
Surly you jest
There must be more to it
Than what you just said

I've seen you take the sorrow
Of all of mankind
Pour it out on written page
Line by saddened line

I'm sure that that
Has something to do with it
After all you can not write about
What it is you have not lived

And if you have not lived
While in this life
What would be the sense
In what it is you write

Dear Mr. Poetry
Those are the wisest words
I belive this day
That I have heard

Thanks for explaining
It all to me
That answers my question now
As I take my leave

(of broken hearts)

I keep saying that I was alright.
But then everytime I met someone who liked me I
would feel ruined.

Like the tunnels of my throat
has your signal lost
and the anatomy of my heart a hot ****** mess.
Its mixing up the hush from my lungs into my veins
reminding
me of how I couldn't talk you down.

I always liked when it snowed
Because no matter how cold it was outside
I'd always have somewhere and someone
to keep me warm
And no matter how little I had
I'd always have something to give
And I'd wear a bow
Because the gift of family was enough
Why isn't it always like this