It's not your smile
It's not your looks
It's not the way you say hello
It's the way you're you
And nobody else
That's what I love
And that's what I see
Because when you are you
No matter what
It makes me want to be
A better me

Is this how we were mean to live,
to die,
to take care of each other?
The woods and open space.
To observe the ant and its care-free life?
To love nature the way we so selfishly love ourselves?
To caress the earth like we would our loved ones?
Maybe, we secretly indulge in such biological dispositions
by planting flowers in the souls of men.

-m.c.

I live only here, between your eyes and you,
But I live in your world. What do I do?
--Collect no interest--otherwise what I can;
Above all I am not that staring man.

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.