Prove whether I do change, my dear,
Or if that I do still remain
Like as I went, or far or near,
And if ye find me not the same,
Declare 't is so that all may hear.

But if ye prove I change, my dear,
Not, but unchanged I do remain
Constant and true whithersoe'er
I travel to, then, dearest, deign
T'admit it only in mine ear.

Both of my many
Seriously, the thanks
Of oddity, set to language
With a single hope, to simply ask...

Silence, I can afford
With only, itself...
Cause curious, the offending word
Is love, with an instinct for wealth

Paradise, was a fascinated clue
Almost and authority, undue?
Shared with poises shadow
Claiming only myself, as voice accrued

See...
Being the fate of another
Time, is a world, before anarchy
Ought in my step's, divine is a lover...

there's secrets, hidden beneath the corduroy
a world of wonder
where admission varies
guest to guest,
it's a game of guess
at whether you're let in
or you're like the rest,
corduroy's the fashion though
for sure
they'll be others
that hold you high up
just to push you down under

this guilt,
is eating me alive.
i think it would hurt less,
if beetles did instead.

I've killed myself a thousand times over with the things I've left unsaid.

Watching some of the things I've wanted most fall into the hands of another so many times I'm convinced it's part of the script.

My depth betrays me. My mind defeats me. But I know it's the only thing that will ever free me.

There are too many hairs
I keep blowing off my keyboard
To pretend they aren’t there
And that they can be ignored.
I can't pretend I have gone blind,
I am admitting they are all there
And that they come from me;
They truly are my own hair.

It must be true, I hazard
Because I can see my scalp.
It’s a situation from aging
For which there is no help.
I have long expected it.
It will do no good to whine.
The disappearing tonsure
I needs must claim as mine.

And so I placate myself
With selfish comparisons
I may look older than others
But much better than some.
Not many decades ago
I once thought sixty was old.
I am thankful for my friends
Who decided not to scold.

They knew I was being
Just the least bit callow.
But they avoided labeling me
With words like vain and shallow.
So, perhaps the vain part
I have with me even now,
And I would abandon that
If I could figure out how.