How can I consider myself a poet?
I do not have a cat for a pet
(Instead I have a dog that thinks I’m her pet)

How can I call myself a poet?
I do not over indulge in alcohol
(Except the rarely occasional beer or whiskey)

How can I be a poet?
I do not consciously write with rhyme or rhythm in mind
(If it comes, it’s usually seldom or unintentional)

How can I be called a poet?
I don’t live in France nor have I ever been
(Though given the chance, I would leave in a heartbeat)

How can I be considered a poet?
I don’t dress in all black clothes and smoke Clove cigarettes
(I love flannel and jeans and smoke Camel or American Spirits)

                                                      ­       *How can I consider myself a poet?
                                                 (Maybe the fact that I ask this question makes me a poet?*)

Behold! And see, my friends! ‘Tis me,
Your knight of shining might!
The hero, the savior, and might I add,
The victor of many a fight.

But I regret my quota is set.
My fate may be too great,
All maidens saved, all dragons slain.
There is no one left to sate.

“So I leave at once, at last relieved!
My steed is all I need,”
Said I not half an hour before
The dire call to heed.

He ran about, a gentleman stout.
He said, “’Tis what I dread!
My cat, I fear, has climbed a tree,
A tree just overhead!”

With lightning speed, I left my steed.
With glee, I slammed the tree.
The oak did shake, and the cat did drop.
Hard? I disagree.

Further forth, I reached Far North,
A town so well renown.
There, a girl beckoned and said,
“That boy there stole my gown!”

With hefty sigh, I did reply,
And found the thief unsound.
He found himself within a cell.
‘Tis why I’m so renowned!

And as I rode along the road,
I met a widow beset,
Beset by hordes of harmless hares.
She feared the furry threat.

Hesitantly, I helped, you see,
And shooed the hares’ adieu.
She thanked me so, but I cared not,
For tired of this I grew.

And on my horse, I heard, of course,
A speech to me beseeched.
I rushed to the aid of a man who said,
“Open this can o’ peaches.”

“Egad! “ I yelled, “You’re hopping mad
Bar none! Why, everyone!”
I shan’t go on! Certainly not!
My work is said and done!”

A large mob came, cried my name,
And prayed I’d come to aid.
I did refuse, and while I slept,
I saw not the dragon’s raid.

I saw the town a crispy brown
And shrugged with smile smug.
“T’was not a very memorable sight,
But its beds were rather snug.”

I called my steed of noble breed.
“Stew, there’s much to do!”
But I heard not a whinny back:
The dragon ate him too.

Maiden, maiden
With locks of hazel
And skin of pearly white,
I beckon you, dearest beauty.
I present to you a rose.

But what is this?
The rose does wilt,
As if smothered by winter’s grasp.
Had I not plucked it a moment ago?
What spell or trick is this?

If only I were to see your eyes,
The eyes of an angel fallen.
I beseech to you vulnerably,
Yet your eyes never stray from your lap.

And what purpose do you have
On that boat in placid waters.
I pray, come, my pet,
For these mists are friends foremost
And undertakers in due time.

And yet not a word has escaped
Your rosy lips, fairest maiden.
‘Tis silent as death, this marsh.
I doubt your senses are dulled.

You hang your head as a holy sister,
But in mourning or not, I am unknowing
Speak of your pain, and I shall remedy;
Your wish is all I require.

Still, my lady, your voice is unheard.
To heal a foreign wound would be, at best,
Foolish, but perhaps, with your invisible lyre,
I can ascertain what is needed:
You, my delicate flower, can be saved
If you, in turn, save me.

I was blind before but not now.
No doubt, my lady, the frill of your dress
Reigns above all else, the grains of wood
On the boat’s hull is what you fancy most.
I see it now, true as every morn’s dawn.

Before my eyes this very moment,
I see but a mirror, and on the other side,
True beauty, beauty admired from a far,
Beauty to tease the poor souls who reach
And wish for something more than frigid glass.

it read sixty-five miles
per hour on our way out
of town. My heart was happy
and so was I, (the two are
so rarely spinning in sync.)

it read zero when we reached
the next town and let our feet
move us instead. I can't tell you
how fast we traveled then but my
heart was running faster than the
most technical speedometer could
hope to even guess.

the drive home was forty-five, much
slower and with much purpose. and
as the familiar lights came into view
I realized that I wanted nothing more
than to be 30 miles backwards, in
the unfamiliar town, and stay there
with you
longer.

"...And out of nowhere, she got sad and anti-social and wanted nothing more than to leave. It came out of nowhere, as it often does, and takes a while to leave. It especially likes to appear when certain depressants are involved, and when the memories of a better time begin to play in her mind.

The sight of them makes her stomach churn and all of her emotions turn sour. She then longs to find something -- anything -- as a distraction; she begins thinking of excuses to depart the loathed scene before her.

She pities herself, for continuing to feel hope. She dislikes herself for feeling misogynistic. She so desperately wants what she can't -- and seemingly never will -- have again. It kills her deeply to still feel these feelings after all this time.

Said feelings were supposedly detachable, so why not detach herself again?

It's always easier said than done."