Ode to a Poet(writer)
I know you,
All alone
4am is when you feel most at home.
I feel you,
Blank page, full pen,
I see you,
Looking at a page waiting for a tale to unfold,
Behold!
When it starts, it flows,
I am you,
Hiding away, writing my pain,
Escaping reality,
Day to day,
We are art,
In the way we move,
We are the dreamer's and believer's
Pad and pen in hand til our dreams come true.
C. Tyler

Oh I've never loved another,
The way I love this little fella,
He drives me up a wall,
And makes me smile
Like a sun bright and yellow.
Do you ponder,
My secret lover,
Well its not too serious,
It's just I just need this brother,
Head's hard as a rock,
Heart light as a feather,
And with him,
I feel his love forever,
My son Tyler Jones,
Shines bright in any weather.
C. Tyler

I like to give people things
I'll buy them food
Or their movie ticket
Or I'll give them a ride somewhere
Free of charge.
I like to give people things
Because I know how the world is
How it takes too much

It took my father
It took my sanity
It took my patience
It took my hope
But it has not taken away my will
I always have a choice

I choose to give.
And I will give until I have nothing left
Because then,
At least it will be my choice.
And I will know that
The world cannot take away
Something I no longer have.

My heart is the heart of a child,
Who doesn't know how to say goodbye,
So I will wait for you,
In the corner of a verse!

By: Nida Mahmoed.

I'm fond of thinking of
Little towns I never knew more of
Than a name, a blooming of meaning
For someone else

Wandsworth, for example
Where is that?
What root colour does its name bring up
Through ink and rising yeast of
Mucky history, what
Legends roam there, who tells the stories in
Such a place?

My questions lie in courtesy
For I expect no wonders from a place such as Wandsworth
Nor would I expect my own beginnings
To tingle much whiskers
But I know

Every corner and straight of my hometown
Every cranny and nook of where I'm from
Every thought of deflated or ardent home grown hope which springs
From every river I know my place
And someone knows Wandsworth

Some lover is leaving there now
Some legend is lacking a purpose there
Some houses are filled with public displays
Of memories made, of remembrances paid

Who calls that place home?
I know they're out there,
Thinking of something
And looking up hoping
Perhaps writing of me
As I ponder what life read to them

And had me read back
Curious love for knowing of others
And the sleep which follows
To forgetting such things
Forever