I pretend that your poems and 
my poems go
slumming in disguise;
carrying on in dark doorways
of riverfront bars—
tipsy, telling secrets,
spilling out into the sweet-smelling
night,
libertines 
more in love 
than they were before.

I am two fools, I know—
For loving, and for saying so
In whining poetry;
But where’s that wiseman that would not be I,
If she would not deny?
Then, as th’ earths inward narrow crooked lanes
Do purge sea waters fretful salt away,
I thought, if I could draw my pains
Through rhymes vexation, I should them allay.
Grief brought to numbers cannot be so fierce,
For he tames it that fetters it in verse.

But when I have done so,
Some man, his art and voice to show,
Doth set and sing my pain,
And, by delighting many, frees again
Grief, which verse did restrain.
To Love and Grief tribute of verse belongs,
But not of such as pleases when ’tis read;
Both are increased by such songs,
For both their triumphs so are published;
And I, which was two fooles, do so grow three;
Who are a little wise, the best fools be.

That little heart shaped from green?
                         as I am.
         love formed with time and care, growing
     stronger and more vibrant every second,
            
               immortalized
                    there with you.

Those who write poetry feel too much

They feel too much pain
Too much joy
Too much sadness
Too much freedom and hate
Too much compassion and love

They are not normal and some
Do think them quite strange
For normal people would be ok
To push their feelings away
But see a poet, he can not
just push them away
What he feels must erupt
onto the page
Otherwise he risks
being enraged

It is their blessed curse
To live without a buffer
To feel all they can feel
and push none away

But thank God for these people
for from their suffering and joy, comes art.
Beautiful,
Heart wrenching art.