Nope not better than Poe
try as I may not to mope
I don't even compare....
I might be a bishop but he's
definitely the Pope

I am ANu poet
the poem is me.
I may not be Poe
but I'll be et alli.

All the thoughts that collect in my mind right now lead to biting... TMI

A phrase sewn into the very fabric of my thoughts and words,
Let's be weird for a second so that I can feel normal,
Its been awhile,
We all know the feeling,
There is a selfish stench that covers the true sincerity of being on the end of a babbling mouth,
Word ***** so I've heard.
A price for the anxiety driven conversation,
That, one, I? you?
Just want to end by revealing that too much has been shared and all of Hell will open to devour the chosen who failed to keep the mouth shut,
Speak it anyways,
Just yesterday I thought about *******, indeed I did,
How little, how much, how long,
It's not hard to know this moment,
Where a sensation overcomes experience,
The slip,
What a beautiful snipit of what matters,
Taken away,
Becomes some sort of "okay,"
Unless controversy over ego and ego draws a tarnished line of how much I and you know,
I really can only focus on one subject within this,
Uh,
It took me like 8 times to even begin this one poem,
I kept getting distracted, love, children, being a teacher,
Following tangents of conversations and panicked assumptions, those normal thoughts that see the warning signs of danger,
Light up a cigar and say "**** it,"
Charging full speed into the unknown,
All of that kept me from drawing a conclusion to why I really wanted to tell anyone that I like biting.

I've never been great at poetry;
The process always fails for me.
While mister Poe and Shakespeare last,
My writing ends up in the trash.

Their writing style, lost with age,
Their wisdom hid in ev'ry page,
The glory given where it's due -
These are things I cannot do.

My writing's forced; theirs doth flow.
I say it blunt; they say it slow.
Those areas that bless and move
Are places where I can't improve.

So why, with my lack of skill,
Do I keep on writing still?
With such a hopeless case as this,
You'd think I would already quit!

There was a time when I did -
My desk was shut; my pen was hid.
Then something occurred to me
Which changed it all instantly.

If Dr. Seuss had Shakespeare tried,
And Mr. Poe glorified,
And given up in dismay,
We wouldn't have his books today.

So keep on writing how you do
With that style unique to you.
Put your mind into use
(You just might be another Seuss)!

Good bye! Awful love, goodbye!
You vile ******, annoying fly
I’ve had it with your awful lies
Be gone, forever, our love is dry

Your vile thoughts ***** my brain
The happy hum that replaced your name
Lowly, you sit in despair, for shame!
You awful love, your name is in vain

Goodbye! You awful love indeed;
So lucky was I to be your need
So silly to think I’d follow your lead
Goodbye awful love, don’t remember me.

_happy dumb i let you hurt me
so lucky am i, to be so deserving
so lucky am i, to have you ****** me
thank you, thank you for being so
mean to me

happy dumb i’ll be yours for eternity
thank you, my love, for being so mean
to me _

a certain morning stiffness
in your joints

you find your face
in the bathroom mirror
and wish you hadn't

the puzzled wisdom
    of middle age
wavers from your eyes
deepening wrinkles
   of many laughs
   many frowns

   how many more?

   nevermore ?!

the room becomes aflutter
with poesque ravens
the presence of absences
fills the void
your life is on the brink
of deconstructing itself
to the periphery of the universe
a discourse of silence
forever becoming ... becoming ...
what...?

   nevermind!

so

you close your eyes
   hard
for a minute or two

when you look again
you meet the stare
of a not-so-bad-looking
man in his best years
  
   graying sideburns
   receding hairline
   20 pounds too many
      BUT
   a firm decision
   to work them off
  
   still a bit sleepy
   yet determined
   to shave
      get dressed
      have breakfast
  
   and teach
   that wonderful seminar
   on 19th century poetry
   to eager graduate students