she is so lucky to have had you,
and to still have you
the you before you were hurt,
the you that
loved
and
trusted like nobody's business.
will you trust me too?
or will you believe me to be a fool?

there are so many questions that i need answers to.
questions that i cannot ask you,
nor anyone but myself.
why do you shed tears?
you let out more than a sob that night as i stayed by your side
when she acknowledged how beautiful you loved her.
you, a wonderful being when loved and when you love.
why must you suffer?
you let out another wail, and i wished i could take away the pain.
i wished, with all my might that you will believe me as i whispered,
"you'll be okay, it's okay"
tell me, did you believe it?
i meant it, dearly.

Dear God of Study,
I put my brain in your hands
Help me pass all my exams!

I'll be good all year round,
help my GPA from crashing on the ground.

All I need is a curvy C,
because that's what'll get me my degree.

Help.

Casted over me is a loom of doom.

Chained to the negativity it becomes hard to bare.

Crushed by my despair I drag it around and wear it as my armour.

Cursing at myself for the dark emotions, I shrike alone.

Covered by love I still reject.

Cannot receive when there's no respect for myself.

Chasing away the ones I hold dear is the only way I can endure.

Carrying memories that hold me back, I relive alone.

Costs I pay for my depression.

Santa stood by the fire
With a pipe in his teeth
With smoke in the air
Circling him like a wreath

Clement Clarke Moore
Said this so long ago
But, what kind of pipe
I'm sure you don't know

Santa, a smoker
That's nothing new
If you remember the poem
Then you'll know it's true

The pipe, oh so slender
A small bowl at the end
A slight whisper of smoke
In the air, it would send

It arched to the floor
To the end of his beard
If it ever got close
Then his beard would be seared

The tobacco he smoked
Was a Turkish fine blend
With cloves and some nutmeg
Just how much, would depend

Was he giving out presents
Or sitting down by a fire
That determined just what
He would put in his briar

The pipe had a name
It was a Churchwarden pipe
Made of briar so old
A now long extinct type

Red Man tobacco
Some days he'd switch
But, not very often
It made his nose itch

The pipe is a classic
It shows Santa had style
Though it had a small bowl
It would last him a while

He could make rings appear
And they would circle his head
Or he'd just taste the spice
And form a small cloud instead

A Churchwarden pipe
Can be smoked by so few
It's a long way to draw
It's a tough thing to do

The scent that it leaves
Is of burnt spices and pear
And if you should smell it
You know Santa was there

So, this Christmas instead
Make it your pre bedtime goal
To leave out some OHM Turkish
To replenish his bowl

He was the world's greatest poet
He wrote his words not in ink but blood ,not on paper but onto the heart
He was a true poet,the greatest

He wrote rhymes so lovely onto my heart
Lines that were so beautiful,so deep he engraved onto the centre of my life
That which beats to keep me going

I loved him
His name was a sweet melody
Rhyme & rhythm....all of it
His touch..his touch was like a beautiful piece
So fulfilling, so full of emotions & meaning
He was the world's greatest

So great,he was so great
He wrote onto my heart...wrote to hard...I fell too hard
Even the greatest poet hit a block
He wrote no more...inspiration lost
He left..left me with a heart full of his work
A heart in which he had engraved so many promises

He promised forever but left before tomorrow set in
Still he was the world's greatest poet
Because--Poets use their work to express emotions in a moment.. When the moment passes...its now a piece with memory
I was in a moment.. A piece..and now a memory to him
Yet he lives still for me in the present as the world's greatest poet