My poetry is ice cold
And offer me no sympathy
Lines have no comfort between them
On top or underneath them
If words could conceal my hearts disease
Then paper would be rough and bumpy and creased
Forgive me those who put their souls on sheets
Forget what I've written like flaky Autumn leaves
That become nothing after they brown and fall from trees
Gather up my words and spread them in the wind
But, I fear that my sonnets mean nothing to the ears in which they're caught
Like paper doves, they sink in water
Mine, though they rhyme, holds no less passion than torture
For those who feel different, don't let this thought bore you
For feelings that linger will soon pass
Trains that stop, will again move fast
And like these things that never lasts
That is poetry to me, so this is my last