People tend to ask too much of me
Because they know I am willing to give them everything I have

It's such an easy way to get mistreated, manipulated, and taken advantage of

But I will never stop giving all I have, especially to the people that deserve it and even to the people that don't

The happiness of others is way more important than any amount of money, time, or sleep

So let me pay for the little things you want
Let me be late to work so I can spend 10 minutes kissing you goodbye
And let me wake up to answer your phone calls at 4 am when you can't sleep

I will always cross oceans for the people I care about
Whether or not they would cross a puddle for me

I just hope that one day
Someone will return the favor

Alone it sits there,

intensely brooding
on how this evening
would turn out to be;
an elegant, gleaming
thirsting, ****** wine glass
without a drop of wine.

The hesitant shadow
of a melancholy poet,
while walking on it's
wobbly undefined legs,
result of light losing to darkness,
speaks to the alert poetic self,
listening with perked up ears,
in a strange dialect of darkness
about 'being in nothingness'

There are poems hidden in the limbs of the willow
Lines of rhyme flowing from the music of the wren
Sonnets sitting like angels atop clouds resting on hilltops
Waiting to instill those with pen and ink to script lyrics to enlighten
There are triolets among the petals of coneflowers, pink, red and yellow

For poems are the breath of our life, the sustenance of the soul
Wars recalled in verse, memories intended to calm
Songs of poetry sing messages cascading from the heart
When gods, or monsters, or disease destroy the planet
The last words, lines forming an elegy, will drift from the debris

In a vast canvas, human mind could never fully conceive,
life is unfolded as a moving picture, a chain of events-
intricately webbed, beyond the capacities of calculation
of even the most sophisticated super computer,
when the story proceeds act after act, note without fail,
a fog, descends from nowhere,  one even fails to notice its role,
it cleans  up the canvas, for the movement  forward,
without any order, dissolves part of the canvas in to the background,
don't expect fire works, thunder or lightening always
the fog that makes the marked parts disappear, keeps its mystery in tact,
there appears a wound somewhere, blood spurt,
then without much tending the mouth of the wound closes,
perhaps a faint scar will be left, but no one will notice,
life and death close each other's mouth in a conspiracy of silence.

The sirens won't stop
Everybody is running
The world is ending