The life that came with you
Is far better than
The one I had
For years before.

The dark rose
Blooms tomorrow,
Never to be seen by day.
The scared coward
Faces courage,
Never to be seen again.

As words fly from my pen
And creatures are created,
A novel beckons to be written.
But as I set it down,
Hidden deep in the forest of the Shelf,
It begs to be finished.

"What's mine is yours"
How accurate, it seems,
But there's one thing missing:
Once yours its no longer mine.

I should just stop.
This does me no good.
I don't know why I even try.

Because I'm a little too tired
To care about your new boy.
So I'll say I'm glad
But really I'm just numb.
I'm sorry.

Open internet bookmarked pages,
creased and cut newspaper pages
and what do you find laying there?
Lies! Written and typed white lies
that can change the minds of men
and the diet restrictions of nervous, plump women.

I know what is real, I think:
          1. Gradient blue skies that are swiped across the Cambridge ceiling at night. They are real.
          2. The feelings you feel for those you have felt feelings for. They’re real
          3. Falling hail and wet shoes, socks moist with Spring’s choice of weather. That was real.
          4. Falling shrapnel of the Boston Bombs that embedded themselves into the tired thighs of  marathon runners running upon high. That was real.
          5.  This poem may well be real, but I haven’t the guts to say in concrete-words that it matters in the grand scheme of things. This might not be real, I regularly think.