as the yacht neared the pier
the crowd applauded loudly
for the lone yachtsman had won
against the rough seas

His Grandpa writes poetry in the tub.

(See the banner photo, please)

His Grandpa writes poetry in the tub,
Clearly a skill and ability
that has been passed
to the next generation.

For who could conceive successfully
Of writing something so exquisitely
Joyful as his smile,
A poem par excellence!

I am sure it is but a matter of
Days and weeks,
After the newbie begins to post
His œuvres écrites,
Here on HP,
That the debate will commence
Who is the better poet sweet?

No worries.
My conceit has already conceded.

It would be comical if it weren't so sad
How I find myself drawn inexplicably towards
Images and instances of you which still cause so much pain.

Moth to the flame - it's just nature - might explain this need found in me,
And I can't help but find the utmost pleasure
As I rub more and more salt in the wound,
Following each and every round with a squeeze of lemon
To add some spice and variance to the exquisite fair
That I have been feasting upon with my soul.

Try and deny it as I might,
It is in the depths of this despair that I delight.
Seeing your name is a shock and a stab
Of emotion that cuts so poignant and so true,
A breath of fresh air that makes me feel boundlessly alive
Inspite of the abyss it creates inside.