Roses are red
Violets are blue
This is as cliché
As it's possible too.

Wherever you were
Born and bred
Your clichéness will be
Ripped to shreds

Long story short
It's been said before
It's not a *one in a million chance
That when it rains, it pours

Or practice makes perfect
It's said all the time
I'm sick and tired of these clichés
They're really difficult to rhyme

Only time will tell
So be careful of what you're reading
'Cause everything happens for a reason
And looks can be deceiving

So if I think outside the box
And all dreams can come true
Then the use of a cliché
Would be enough to **** you

But if you're lucky enough
To have *played your cards right
This could be the first day
Of the rest of your life

This intangible craving
  for something so unattainable
    is little more than a lovely fantasy
      but it'll do for now.
        It goes like this:
Your hair is a whirlwind about your skull
  As the Ayrshire wind batters us.
    Thick sweaters and reluctant smiles.
      Damp wool and lovesick laughter.
A thin sodium layer misted onto our skin,
  Granules of sediment beneath our nails
    And in the fibers of every stitch.
      Thin fingers, exploring uncharted land.
Lukewarm, stale coffee turned cold.
  Cold lips turned warm and wet.
    Secrets whispered, never retold.
      The rain falls down on Scotland's shores
        Again.

don't feel sorry for me.
I am a competent,
satisfied human being.

be sorry for the others
who
fidget
complain

who
constantly
rearrange their
lives
like
furniture.

juggling mates
and
attitudes

their
confusion is
constant

and it will
touch
whoever they
deal with.

beware of them:
one of their
key words is
"love."

and beware those who
only take
instructions from their
God

for they have
failed completely to live their own
lives.

don't feel sorry for me
because I am alone

for even
at the most terrible
moments
humor
is my
companion.

I am a dog walking
backwards

I am a broken
banjo

I am a telephone wire
strung up in
Toledo, Ohio

I am a man
eating a meal
this night
in the month of
September.

put your sympathy
aside.
they say
water held up
Christ:
to come
through
you better be
nearly as
lucky.

I have no where to hide
Nothing to blind me
The silent space between us
grows more and more
I don't know how I'll shield myself
from your eyes that never look my way
I don't know what to feel
Will I ever feel okay?

Everything I notice reminds me of you
Letters turn to words turn to sentences
all about you and you have no clue
I'm filled with what ifs and regrets
Is there anything I can do?

I have no other destination
No where else to go
There are no more distractions
to hide myself from reality
I no longer know how to avoid
my emotions
They are breaking down my walls
Will I overcome this one-sided devotion?

I wrote you poems you will never read
Sentences turn to stanzas turn to poems
all for you and I can't help it
I can't stop thinking about you anymore
*Will my thoughts of you ever quit?

He worked, all bent
And sweat of brow.
It's how his life went
He remembers it now.
He was told consistently
Since his early childhood
“Hard work earns rewards.”
He believed as a child would.

He believed in the dream
And worked hard most days
Saving whatever he could
Economizing in many ways.
There were no vacations
No brand new automobile.
He was sure in time he'd see
His debts brought to heel.

He bought a modest shack
For his wife and their children.
Nothing fancy, rather tight,
In no way was it modern.
But it was a roof, and safety
A harbor at the end of day.
That sadly came to an end.
The economy took it all away.

He still wants to believe
The dream he believed in
But now he and his family
Have no house to live in.
He feels someone lied to him
And they are doing so still.
Now he is angry at those
Who wrote such awful bills.

Music determines the heart,
It expresses what you want to feel,
It hides it from people who are musically unconscious,
Yet when expressed it is such a release of buried emotions that there is no other way to define it other than
Spiritual.

I look through my photographs
And see a person I never knew.
An open smiling soul you might
Tell almost anything you wanted to.
And what a fine face I had
With shining unlined skin.
I look at that face and shake my head
Wish I looked like that again.

I don't remember being that cute
It must be a camera trick.
I'm surely not that hot now.
This just makes me sick.
Someone just managed to
Aim that cheap camera right.
Or else it was the lighting
Whether day or night.

I remember that outfit
And the length of my hair.
But I am sure someone doctored
This picture up somewhere
Because I never take pictures well.
I always look like a freak.
I mean these picture make me
Look like I had a widow's peak.

And, look how tiny my waist
And how great my style was then.
I wish I could be that hot
And that young once again.
I would  take that face back again
In a minute if I knew how.
But please no pictures of me today.
I don't like my pictures now.