a rider there found the lore
and envision his plan
though surely a wire tell
and fine her in her skull
a minute's worth of plaintiff
while they meet rhetorical
and anchor a horse feather
this bar between hither
with Pegasus dimly lighted
and Chisholm Trail afoot
wholly charm a spirit together
in a kiss of extraordinary measure
that a yellow sky glitter
under the stars tonight

I am not a writer. I just write.
I am neither a poet.
I just want to drift and become a poem
And you will write me without complexity.

You see I am just a prose

              IRREGULAR
                       and
              ORDINARY

Still you see my beauty - loud and trenchant.
Your hands mapping out the verses of my skin
As I feel the warmth of the words I wanted to hear
From those lips I have kissed.

Your thoughts lithesome as they sashayed on ink and paper.

I can see how you etched my flesh like scars I wanted to bare in their own nakedness
For I have been a savage for too long that I want to be something you ignite with a touch

I do not write.
No, monsieur
I do not.
I cannot.

You see me and read my like a poetry when I am simply a prose
You looked through my soul
Loved me beyond all of my flaws.

i find
that the word ****
is a poetic word.

"*******"
is harsh
rude
and
brash.

"**** me"
is ******
crass
and
not classy.

"**** it"
means a lot,
like ***** these ideas
***** what is thought.

I find
**** it
is a good phrase.
The other two
negative,
one that's positive
sometimes.
**** it,
implys a lot.
And in this case
it implied
forgetting
what the others
thought
and how others
saw
us.

-r.y.s