I miss writting
letting words flow.
I miss the rush of catching all the ideas when my hand was too slow.
I miss the need of putting on paper what I felt,
of having to stop everything before I could forget.
I miss feeling inspired by the smallest thing,
a song, a phrase, your voice, your hair.
We took different ways
and you took away my words
but I kept all the love.

When i am old and grey
my heart is still the same
you and me spend the day
sharing of memories is our game.

I can't sleep
who am i kidding? I never can
Sure my body get's 
Twelve hours a day
but me? no sleep for me
My mind that is
I don’t even dream anymore
I just think
My mind is growing weak
No sleep
Catches up with you
I'm losing my edge
but nothing i can do about it
Another twelve hours of this
I need a hobby

I never learned to sleep, I enjoyed the night to much.
I always have and may always will.
It's an addiction to getting more from time.
Why sleep when I can catch up on:
TV
Reading
Exercise
The moon
Learning why,
we live.
There much more to explain and give.
Such as writing poetry.
But, sleep is needed and it is good.

Exaggerating, is a way
To make situations, and to progress the day
Exaggerating, isn't the way
To fool people, make them yell;hey!

Talking, is a way
To express, and to convey
Talking, isn't the way
To bore people, all the day

Writing, is a way
To help creating, your say
Writing, isn't the way
To pass seasons, whether December or May


|AB|

There once was a man named Bobby
Who was bored and needed a hobby
He sat there and pondered
He thought, and he wondered
But nothing came to him all day.

So Bobby decided to write
But none of his words came out right.
His thoughts tossed and turned
And his first drafts, he burned
Because he felt his work was trite.

Suddenly, the room filled with flames
And he knew his first drafts were to blame
He tried to escape
But he was too late
And soon he screamed with pain.

He died later on that day
And his story goes on to say
Take pride in your work
And all of its quirks
Or soon you will leave the same way.

She picks up a pen,
a whirlwind of words fly around her head.
Her stories are written but not really read, as she plants her special words in her book.
She pulls her little book closer, as people are wondering why, she sits there and scribbles every day and every night.
Her throat swells and her anxiety kicks in, as worry pumps around her within.
She wonders what they'll think, is she weird? But she continues her poems with everything unknown.