I always liked storms
so I chased after you, and
danced under your rain

You'll never read this.
That's what makes it
so easy to write.

Many bottles on the tables,  
All properly labeled, clear,  
Yet contents hidden, veiled within,  
Their secrets disappear.  
  
Some hold water, pure and plain,  
Some with wine refined,  
Juices sweet in some you'll find,  
While others stand confined.  
  
A few are lifted, sipped with joy,  
Their purpose fulfilled with ease,  
But many sit in silent wait,  
Left alone, to only tease.  
  
Some are empty, void of worth,  
Disappointment's quiet toll,  
For not all bottles, neatly placed,  
Can satisfy the soul.

i am the best
version of myself
when i am comfortable
surrounded by my loved ones
and knowing there are no time restrictions

Remember,
the best things in life are free

...plus tax
...license
...and recycling fee

Sometimes
Give the poems in your head
Some rest.

Don't write them on,
Write them off.

Internally arrange a funeral
Bid them farewell
Give them an unceremonious burial.

The rising poem won't complain
They know well your anguish and pain.

The labour you go through birthing them
Shape their body, give a name
They would understand.

Failed poems are not as arrogant
As the birthed ones.

They too are weary pounding your head
Making holes in your soul
They would rather rest than be born.

Sometimes
They deserve rest.

Let them float away to a place
Where they find peace
And will not be missed.

Let me hug you.
Let me console you.
Let me take care of you.

"Are you in pain?"