If there comes a time
that you might lose me
Find me in my poetry

They said,
"The most beautiful art is
looking into someone's eyes
when they talk about the
things they love."
And I said,
"Or looking at someone you love.
Or maybe, just maybe,
by looking at the mirror
is the most beautiful art
anyone should appreciate."

A poem is a story itself
it's just ambiguous

I am a stone, I will make my own ripples.

Some will walk away their cares as if they walk up or down the stairs into or out of oblivions face as their mask of poetry falls from place onto the floors with checkered squares that are covered and littered with their words like flares from phrases of I don't care punctuated with the stuffings from ripped apart stuffed bears flogged by improper English weilded stares as imperfect hands in braile will yell skin deep in demeanor not so hard to tell or keep and no doubt to all I have to say as I wave my hands goodbye good day.

How overly flawed
My mistakes are,
As they flew
Breathlessly
Under the skyline.

I exhaled those regrets
But they kept on
Rebounding
Back at me.