I've always admired
the hands of a poet
fragile, yet capable of telling
the most breathtaking stories
and writing down
the most frightful thoughts
in the form of ravishing metaphors
so no one really gets
how dreadful they really are

the hands of a poet
can take you to a place
that’s constructed out of time and illusions
the hands of a poet
can lift you up
and make you fly
they can take you to the only place
that they would call shelter

I’ve always admired
the hands of a poet
because they can form the letters
so resolutely
while the words are still pondered about
they can make words look
like they’re on the right place

the hands of a poet
aren’t as damaged as their feelings
and unlike the mind of a poet,
they age
until the poet can’t write
the beautiful thoughts down anymore

Broken kitten.
Spitting fear-***** and choking on bile
Crying at the  foot of my bed
Burried in your head.
Sobbing into soft white mittens
Lips with no tounge.
Tounge with no face.
Life bleeding away' no trace
So curl into my lap little kitten
Not so far away.
Curl into my lap  little kitten
Scare the nightmares away

Dancing little kitten
Plying for my toes
Just the tinniest flinch of movement.
And away your paws go.
To cling to my toes and my fingers
To swing at my nose
Soft kisses  are like wishes little kitten,
They rarely help.
But like wishes, soft kisses
Are allways felt
So  crawl back to my arms
Tears sting skin like sandpaper
Crawl back to my arms little kitten
Ill show you dont need a maker

Its good to see your tears are done,
Little kitten,
It hurts me when i see them run.
Ima little smitten,
By the way
Your eyes play
Throughout the day, All sleep, no pay.
Keep hidding behind my toes
(Trust me they'll keep you safe)
Keep bristling against my nose
Whiskers and bells and whistles.
Watching your heart fall like a mistle.
Wishing i put up with the gristle..
I hope you fly
And i hope you dont find out untill you try.
To be taken by surprise and see the world from the sky.
To look down from the clouds and see the sparkles in my eye

Little kitten
So i loved you
Little kitten
Kind eyes
Gentle heart
Silly jokes
And all those wonderful  parta
Take my words
Make them yours
And keep marching through lifes many doors

Some people write, but rarely read,
That seems to me most strange indeed,
They've read less than a hundred books,
Yet think they imitate the looks,
Of Sassoon, Cummings, Keats and Pound,
Or think they imitate the sound,
Of Lennon, Dylan, or Shakur,
And sometimes think they've offered more,
Than Chaucer, Wilde or Shakespeare could,
And claim they're more misunderstood,
Than even Salman Rushdie was,
Which really ticks me off because,
After having read such wondrous works,
A sense of failure always lurks,
Inside me whenever I write,
Yet they think they've done well tonight!
I hate them all! That's it - I've said it!
But they won't know until they've read it,
Which is quite doubtful, I'd attest,
Who'd read my work and skip the best?

I sometimes wonder
if I were to write the word "gullible"
on the ceiling in cursive script,
how many people would have
enough faith in me
when I told them about it
  to look up.

There's a thin line
between trust and gullibility
and I'd like to think
that none of my friends
would be so gullible
to believe that I was lying
based on the public opinion
  of what I said.

Regardless of what the world
may think of me
with their downcast eyes,
my friends would look above
for the truth in my words
  and smile.