Fight, always fight, always,
One must never yield, not ever,
For I have kissed death, yes,
Lift the veil, the hidden truth,
He is not welcoming, he lies,
He is rotten, corrupt and stinking.
I have felt that cold embrace,
I shuddered, choked, rejected,
Came screaming from its pull,
Denied the dark allure, so cold,
And reared to confront my end,
I fought back, struggled, kicked,
Punched, bit, clawed, wrestled,
Until I was free, heated breath,
And now I know, understand,
We must always fight, always.

Inspired by a writer on HP.

©Paul M Chafer 2016

come follow me
down the road
to the old oak tree

no one has to know
what we do
or where we go

just you and i
our hands entangled
my hopes fly

your kiss so sweet
i'm so glad
we got the chance to meet

even when summer ends
i'll always remember you
you were my best friend

so do not cry
smile because it happened
this isn't goodbye

If I could write you a song
To make you fall in love
I would already have exhausted
Every existing note
And created some new ones just for you.
I'd master every instrument
And grow extra arms
So I could serenade you
With a symphony just half as beautiful as your soul.
If I could write you a song
To make you fall in love
I would already have exhausted
Every combination
Of our twenty-six letters.
I'd master every language
And grow extra tongues
So I could serenade you
With a symphony just half as beautiful as your soul.
If I could write you a song
To make you fall in love
It'd be a duet
Because you play too
And I don't like how my voice sounds
Without yours accompanying it.
We'd play together
So we could serenade each other
With a symphony just half as beautiful as our love.

I never really knew
what goodbye meant,
until she said it to me

All along that road...
Leaves , stones and  dust,
Love  , hate and lust.
Heart , feelings and tears,
Night , dawn and cheers.
All along that road!!!

I only told you I loved you in my poetry,
But never in person.
I never loved you out loud,
Only ever in my song.

I didn't show you what I'd written,
I loved you in what my poems say.
It's too late now for you to read them;
Now this verse too shall see decay.

The ghost of you in what I write,
A beauty of words that comes from you.
I feel a sting in what I sing,
I write to a person I'll never read to.

My words never reached you,
And perhaps they never will,
But my poetry is my heartbeat
Which beats forever still.