It's kind of weird to think.
About how people change.
But it's not generally because of themselves.
Unless they mean it to be.

People around you.
Input pieces of their souls
Into everyone around you.
Every day.

Isn't it weird to think about?
Maybe you saw his fingers tapping,
Or her biting her lip,
Or them saying something that made you laugh.

And then a few weeks later,
You find yourself doing the same thing.

People input pieces of their souls
Into everything they do.
In an English essay, you can hear their voice,
In the way they write.
If you listen hard enough.

If you read the things I write.
You can tell little things about me.
Like the fact that I see the good in people,
And the fact that I'm young and in school.

Or the fact that the characters I write about
They exist everywhere in my mind.
My friends are often in my words,
Speaking through everything I say.

My words shape who I've become,
And the things I do become less fun,
Until you realize your soul is spreading too,
When you see someone reading a poem.

When you see someone covering their face with their hair,
Or reading the book you just read.
When you see someone who's singing classic rock,
Looking at you once again.

If you see someone copying your stride,
Or the way you hold your bags.
Or the way you mess with your fingers as you're nervous.
Just know it's not you who's inside.

We're all different people,
Sharing our souls,
Not knowing exactly where they're going,
Not at all.

Yet it's not hard to tell who someone is.
From the pieces of soul you find.

There’s a writer on the block
  Inspiration’s on vacation
Gone on tour with culture shock
  Desperately seeking a situation
Far from the incessant ticking clock
  
Words are flowing like glue
Sniffed but so unwritten
The scent of inspiration flew
Southwards and unsmitten
By paucity’s shallow written hue

Heavy as leaden thought can be
The vacant empty page
Stares blank in mirrors at me
The mocking unwrit rage
A parallel universe in a vacant sea

A world of solid silent inertia
  Invades the imagination
And dulls the poetic drama
Each page gauged in vexation
Such a perfect portrait of a tabula rasa

The origami of crushed paper
A testament to frustration
And a tsunami of written failure
Mocks the myth of imagination
Reducing it to an unremembered feature

And then the keyboard sweetly sings
The ink is beautiful flowing time
While the percussive alphabet rings
The wine soaked harmonies of rhyme
Sweetening the song that poetry always brings.

Isn’t it funny
How poets dramatise everything
“An ocean of depression”
“A death grip of love”
We just can’t help ourselves
It’s who we are
It’s part of being a poet
Over analysing life
Deeply contemplating death
“What is the meaning of life?”
Everything is philosophical
There’s always a lesson to learn
An issue to address
A heartache to confess

My husband whose hair is
a ripple from the midnight river

whose laughter is the glow
of noonday sun on the ocean

whose hands are the breeze across
my face and the thunder in the earth

my once sailor who now works the earth
and sweats the salty sea from his pores

my green man whose hands,
both gentle and strong, nurture plants.

whose tanned skin in summer shines
with sweat palpable and real
over lean muscles
formed through loving labor

my husband whose eyes are the dark
sky before rain and the glistening
trees after

whose eyes are those of a sea lion
an eternity deep

whose soul is molded to mine
like cupped hands dipping water

whose soul refreshes my soul
like a drink from a mountain stream

whose soul goes with me always
running through me like a river...