Well I'm honestly not much different from you.
What makes my words more intellectual or imaginative than yours?
I guess I'm too selfish to admit
That I still don't know exactly what poetry is
Or how God intended it.
I like to think he created poems to show us his beauty
In all things, even the dark.
I guess I've done a bad job as a poet
If I am still in love with God, and no one knows it.

Correct me if you care,
But honestly who are you, and tell me, is it fair
For you to tell me
That you know the meaning of poetry?

I sit here and stare hard at the words that I've scribbled so forcefully
And the smears of the ink all over my hands.
What is the meaning of these meaningless struggles
To empty my mind of all these hateful words?
Maybe I just needed someone to blame
For all these years of anguish and frustration.

The grass is still growing,
It's cold in southern Florida,
Yet I'm still bitter.
The flowers are blooming again
And the whistle of the breeze
Is resounding throughout the hallways of my ear canals,
And the sweetest tune you could ever imagine
Is caressing all my aching muscles.
Yet still, I write things about how my life is in shambles.

If this could be the last poem I'd ever write,
I would praise God for allowing my last words to those reading
Be about how the figment of hatred that we've masked around our faces
Is nothing but wrapping paper with black paint
Covering that sweet gift of peace.
My last words to you are that I'm not wise,
I'm not as great as I think I am,
And I honestly am in love with this wonderful life God gave me,
And the peace he brings me everyday.