I love her.

With every inch of me, since day one.
When her hair is messy.
Uncombed and curly,
Pulled back into a sloppy ponytail
That falls so chaotically across her shoulders.
With several strands pulled out, framing her face.
A cigarette delicately tucked, safely behind her ear.

I love her.
After she wakes up.
Eyes blackened from her obsessive and excessive use of makeup.
With awful breath and resting ***** face,
She is Beautiful.

I love her.
When we stand outside.
And rays of sunshine illuminate her brown eyes,
Turning them into endless vats of amber,
Untouched by man.
Glistening until the end of time.

I love her.
When she is curled into me.
Sleeping deeply and soundly,
Snoring louder than my thoughts,
Shaking and Twitching from whatever goes on in her beautiful subconscious.

I love her.
With no expectations of reciprocation.
I understand I do not fit the criteria due to inevitable reasons.
One day I will, and it will be beautiful.

I love her.
And because of that I will change.
I will become what she needs because if I have her my body does not matter.
She is the one of my dreams.
The one I think about at midday and midnight.
The one my most lovely of poems are of.
The one I have only truly loved.
She does not find me attractive in the way I do her.

But that is okay.
Because I love her.
And one day,
She Will Love Me

Where has the time gone grandpa ?
Your hair has gone from jet black to salt and peppered.
Did I really miss out on that much?

I guess it has been almost ten years since I last came down for more than a couple days.
I had only been seeing you in the summer , those 3 day escapes on the lake.
Now that I've been working with you for a couple weeks, I can see the wear of all the hard work you've done.

I may have missed out on a lot.
But, now I'm here.
Hoping to make up for missed time.

Edges of shadows
In the corners of eyes
Too fast to see
It might be me

Is it true
What you see?
Is it real?
Is it really me?

You do not hear my voice
Or know the colour of my eyes
You would not know me in the street
Or recognise my accent
Should we meet

And yet
You have seen my soul
In the words I write
And even the spaces between them

Those who care to look
Can know my story
My frailties
My vulnerabilities
My reality

This may be my curse
And my gift to you
Whatever it may be
You know that it is true

                                   By Phil Roberts

What do you do
when you have
nothing to do
think about death
or what you could do
not doing anything
but thinking of all
you could
could take hours.

There's a little bit of pain everywhere.
Emotions cut throat disturbing the mindset of others.
As her bloodshot eyes tell the story of a broken heart.
His teary eyes represent the broken, defeated part of his soul.

There's a little bit of pain everywhere.
A small impact that creates a wave of emotions that begin to cluster our hearts and creates a weight of heavy pain.

There's a little bit of inevitably everywhere.
I ask,
"How long shall this storm tear us further more into pieces? "

Her body wobbles like jelly. Vision darkens like the night sky.
The euphoric feel brings her to a close high.
She hits the ground, feeling nothing but her broken battered heart.

He looks at her,  not knowing what to do.
His head faced down, tears flowing like the river.
He tries to understand but his heart screams "**** the cycle of life"
He closes his eyes and ***** his fist with frustration.

I stand there watching them.
Eyebrows furrowed, a heavy hardened look plastered on.
Try not to feel their pain because what I feel is not for them but for me.
What I feel is selfish.
As they look at who they became because of her,  I reminisce the memories and chances I got to see him.
I think about the things I could have done.

How I should have stayed there and said my proper good byes to the man that raised me.
But the Pride he Created and built in me.
The level of strength he engraved on me.
Disregards the sense of emotions I need to let go off.
Eyes furrow deeper as I try to support them.
To watch them and try to be grateful for the life they had with her.

But seconds later, my soul wanders to the mourning I need to do.
To the mourning that will haunt me.
For I never gave you a proper goodbye.
And for the goodbye that will never come.
I'm not ready.

Through a broken window
Covered with dirt and cobwebs
And from within an empty house
Crumbling and derelict
Even the bleakest landscape
Can look fine and good

When the water runs in
Through the sagging old roof
It makes the rain outside
Seem healthier and clean
So that drafts blowing through
Cracked and buckling walls
Make the harshest winds
Feel kind and warm

Because when the interior
Is so desolate and empty
It makes the worst of the world
Seem pretty much good enough
So why bother to change
Anything at all

                                               By Phil Roberts