Floating through a crowded space
Of turning heads and curious eyes.
An echo of the worlds embrace,
A fleeting struggle your mind denies.

Once accepted, strong, a friendly face,
Yet as earth turns around each day,
Confidence falls, sand through lace.
Each moment poised a shade of grey.

A ridiculous cry you know its true,
Yet something gets ahold of you.
It grasps your breath and feeds your soul
Of bitter noise, now less than whole.

Just snap out of this silly game,
A dangerous sport too much at stake,
A lifes at risk, more than a name.
Endurance more than you can take.

This too shall pass, repeat, repeat,
Struggle on, hold your head up high,
Stand and stay upon your feet
We never want to see you cry.

There once was a young boy of thirteen years,
who loved a girl with blue eyes shining bright;
he was her world and she was his light;
one was complete when the other was near.

With strawberry milkshake faces and linked lollipop hands,
they walked the Pacific beach, overcome with smitten smiles,
enscribing their names in the rusty, copper sand
"A promise," they said, as the ocean kissed the land

"I'll be with you regardless of the miles"


and with this, he gifted her the world, it was sealed,
tragedy approaches slowly, but can't penetrate love's shield.

When the teacher's back was turned, he would pass her notes,
simple poems composed by his heart;
one wrote;

"Roses are red, violets bloom high,
the world won't suffice, let me give you the sky"


At home, her beautiful blue eyes cried.

Under the stars they sat, tender soul mates, two of a few,
he didn't understand, a lost child, confused and bare,
her wig fell into her lap, locks of beautiful blonde hair,
looking into her blue eyes he breathed, "I love you"

and with that sacred declaration, the sky belonged to her
with devotion as sure as the sunrise, warmer than mink fur

Later that month, on one incandescent night,
they sat on the moonlit shores, as the western wind sighed
her head on his shoulder, smiling, closing her big blue eyes,
silhouettes upon the sands, holding each other tight

As she slept, as the nightingales fly,
she dreamed of him, her entire world and sky,
never waking up, though a smile graced her lips
with his poem held snug in her delicate grip

"Roses are red, violets bloom high..."



Now a married man of sixty-four, he dreams by and by,
of the two walking the Pacific beach, overcome with smitten smiles,
her childish laugh resounds like heavenly songs in the sky,
for he was her world and she was his light;

in the sun, her beautiful blue eyes shining bright,
in the stars, her beautiful blue eyes shining bright

when i met you, it was easy
we were young
love
what is that?
neither of us knew, but
we taught each other
and now we know

do we know?

four years together
would make it seem like
we do know what love is
after all, i love you
i loved you
do i still love you?

i think i loved you
four years ago
four months ago
four weeks ago
four days ago

but you see,
i met him
three days ago
and now i am not sure.
and
now you want me again
but only because
he wants me too

four days ago,
those three words
probably would have been enough

but four days ago
you were on my mind before i went to sleep

and now you're not

I can't imagine
The descision you face.
Choosing between two families.
Two sets of friends.
Two schools.
Something you love,
And someone.

I may try to understand
but I will never really know.
And in the end,
the choice is yours alone.
Four simple words, can change your life forever.
I want to stay
or
I want to go.
But tell me darling,
where are you truly happy?

What is a poet?

Is it a writer who rhymes
in perfect time

Or a person who captures a moment
like a sunset with a crisp breeze to calm the humidity
with streaks of a cool yellow, and a dimmed down orange
light pinks and wispy clouds
in the dimming light

But what is a poet?

Without a pen and paper to capture their words
or a mouth to speak them
or a mind to think them

What is a poet?

without a life
without a story
without love or misery
without pain
without smiles

Is it a tortured soul or a happy idiot?

No, a poet is a poet.
With a mind to think and a soul to speak.

The poet asks, and Phillis can’t refuse
To show th’ obedience of the Infant muse.
She knows the Quail of most inviting taste
Fed Israel’s army in the dreary waste;
And what’s on Britain’s royal standard borne,
But the tall, graceful, rampant Unicorn?
The Emerald with a vivid verdure glows
Among the gems which regal crowns compose;
Boston’s a town, polite and debonair,
To which the beaux and beauteous nymphs repair,
Each Helen strikes the mind with sweet surprise,
While living lightning flashes from her eyes,
See young Euphorbus of the Dardan line
By Manelaus’ hand to death resign:
The well known peer of popular applause
Is C——m zealous to support our laws.
Quebec now vanquish’d must obey,
She too much annual tribute pay
To Britain of immortal fame.
And add new glory to her name.

A father looks deeply
  into the eyes of his son,
He speaks soft and sweetly:
  "Child, my days are done."

"I've loved every moment
  From the day that we met.
The day of your birth,
  And I'll never forget,
You told me you loved me
  Without using words,
I gave you my heart
  And you gave me the earth.

"And though my life's ending,
   I want you to know,
This is the beginning,
  Of life on your own.
So hear me right now,
   With these final breaths,
And I'll tell you how,
   Your life shall be blessed:

Sing with the water,
  Dance with the bees;
Travel the world,
  And sail on the seas.
Learn to enjoy
  The moments you have;
For now is eternal,
  Yet time moves so fast.

"Learn to love,
  And love to learn;
Light your passion,
  And let it burn.
Reach someone,
  Touch longing lives;
We are all one,
  Together we fight.

"Let go of hurt,
  Learn to forgive,
Understand others,
  We're all new at this.
One day you'll see,
  You'll blink and wake up;
And then you will teach
  Your son to grow up.

With the blackened night,
the marksmen take sight.

No time for regret, no time for glory
this is a soldier's untold story.

Hidden in the slithering shade,
the final stage of this cascade.

They are trained without fear,
creeping closer at the front, the sides and rear.

Shots are fired, many fall,
Only one remains, he stands tall.

Three to the back, one to the head,
he falls to the ground, and was already dead.

He was unarmed with white in his fist,
a flag of purity, it was hard to miss.

Now stained with the blood of the dead,
The marksmen were silent and began to dread.

Not a word was spoken, not a sound was made...
A pause of silence for the ones who stayed.

There's a house for sale, previously owned by two people in love.
They were young and foolish, what were they thinking of?
But that was yesterday, now love has moved away.

There's a house for sale, you can almost hear the laughter that the children made.
In the backyard there's a swing where they once played.
But that was yesterday, now laughter has moved away.

What became of all the dreams they treasured?
Who would of thought their lives would come to this?
They always hoped their love would last forever.
Don't it break your heart to think about the kids?

Now there's a house for sale.
Maybe you can find what they were looking for,
a dream you can hold on to for evermore and never have to say
that love
has move
away.
House 4 Sale.

A true writer never dies
whether in his truth or in his lies
Whether melancholy or blithe

His words will speak perpetually
through a reader's eyes
Each word ascends from the pages gracefully
And there is no need for goodbyes

With his readers now breathing his breath
in his dying, there is no death