The faceless young woman
Who lives in my house
Is rare as a spirit to see.
She hides inside mirrors
And chillies the room,
But it hasn't been bothering me.

Although she's not social
And odd to the eye,
She often has some kind of glow.
And one time over tea
She spoke slowly of
The time that she spent down below.

She had lived through the plague
And the crusades and more
But died one black day of a noose.
For the people, she said,
Back then and e'er since
Found women with voices obtuse.

How do you expect
Anyone to write in this
Really weird format?

Poetry
Is
Glass;
.        you can look into it and find your face,
.                                                                      smiling and grimacing both!

To the man who fell in love with the sea
Come back to me, come back to me.

Who, in the waves found yourself free
Come back to me, come back to me.

Whose eyes lit wide like a banshee
Come back to me, come back to me.

You dove down seep and tried to see
The under-water majesty
You went down, down, I guarantee
Your love for the sea was much more than for me.

Come back to me,
*Come back to me.

Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded, "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man.