My poems are for me and for my soul alone
Why ask me to dedicate it to you?

The only thing I have when I shut my door
And when I tell myself 'I ain't going no more'
Why I ask me to dedicate it to you?

The friend with whom I can confess all my fears
The pal to whisper hope while kissing away my tears
The receiver of my endless drama
And countless struggle with my crazy mind
The tiny ray of sunshine that makes me hold on and believe
That one day I'll see the light
The only reason why i'm still here
Alive and still kicking
And even if I fall down,
I still get back up and try.
*So why ask me to dedicate it to you?

Lakes are the great mystery novel. Every wave; another page

She wanted so hard to be different
Then gets mad when nobody would understand her

BrIgHt TeNdRiLs Of A dEvIlS hAnD
rEaChInG tHrOuGh My FlOoR
lAtChInG oNtO tHe RoOf.
TuRn AwAy, RuN aWaY,
wAkE uP.

The first day
a man in the airport
searches my belongings.
He finds my thanks.
Written on paper
in colors of blue, green,and black.
A jagged smile form on his lips.
"Are these compliments?" He says. "Who wrote them?"
My answer , underlines with a chuckle is:
"That's just it. I have no idea."

"Well how peculiar. How do you treasure something that is the job of Sherlock Holmes?"
(solving mysteries, that is)
I say nothing,
just smile.
"And these names; you have taken the term read between the lines so literally here. These names are words I know, but I don't understand."
My response--as always--is:
"We use them to preserve
our magic.
our secrets.
our ties.
98% of what I hold dear is on that piece of paper. I swear."