I almost wrote you a poem
Except for the unfortunate fact
I’m hesitant about how I feel,
And all the information that I lack.

I don’t know what fills your dreams
Or what monsters fuel your fears.
What sweet joys make your smile beam?
What fills your eyes with tears?

Do you cry for the small injustices?
Do you smile for a beautiful song?
Do you paint broad strokes with small brushes?
And speak without fear of being wrong?

I almost wrote you a poem
Except I just don’t understand,
I barely even know you,
This is not what I had planned.

I never thought I’d feel this spark
Before I got to know your heart.
Never thought I’d have this crush
Yet your thought can make me blush.

You’re beautiful and surely kind
Talented and most devine,
I know this and not much else
I see you and my heart swells.

Even with all the knowledge
This would still be true:
There is no beauty in this world
That could accurately compare to you.

I almost wrote you a poem
And perhaps I already have.
One day we may look back on this
And have ourselves a laugh.

10/21/18
1:31 am

The pain is real
The pumpkins feel
When all their seeds
The bumpkins steal

When the aliens picked you up,
they said they'd take you on a trip.
Fly you around the galaxy,
and give you galactic tips.
Like, how to wash your car
without leaving water drips.
And, how to dance and laugh and sing,
be happy without drugs,
and overwhelm your children
with the stacking of coffee mugs!
But, when they take you up again,
by that blinding, grey-blue light,
tell them that you'd like to be
home the very next night!
'Cause if they take you
all the way
to planet Hullabaloo
and leave you at the spaceport
to wander to the loo,
you'll probably get yourself lost,
and find you're somewhere sniffing glue
and that's no way to spend the night
on planet Hullabaloo!

I am depraved.
He doesn't love me.
I talk like an apple tree that only produces pears.
Sorry, but hopeful.

I climbed over the garden wall
Into the rich court and down the hall
Before I lived in poverty
Know I see how to live properly
By taking others property
And now there is nothing stopping me
See I told the rich
That humble and poor, was good!
And bad was having more than you should.
I laughed myself into a stitch.
And they left their house so quick!  
Did I learn lies are the best teacher?
Or never trust a preacher?
Either way, I showed them all
Because I climbed over the garden wall

Wake up with a jump and a start.
This isn't just prose,
this is an art.
To weave your stories, through and
through, with
broken pen and missing shoe.
With mixed conviction,
perfect diction,
convicts swoon at your traditions.

As long as you believe
the lines make sense, they'll breathe
your soul and lack pretense.
Self-defense from knives to words and songs to birds,
soaring
o'er the roar and o'er the dives,
through the skyscraper's windows, break a floor and seek to strive.

Words are not just words,
I've heard many a stern voice
attacking a sturdy herd of
wavering wordsmiths who have
forgetten that they have a choice.
Alliteration counts as craftful creation
and the tale of poets shows it: these
sentences are paintings of a nation.
Decorating time and space
and all its stations of making a
stand.

You're a poet,
perfectly pathological,
hurting through rose- colored
opticals and bleeding for something
beautifuly better, just getting lost calls
but keep searching for the right letters; don't let the sands of time make you hate your written desert.
It's worth your weary hands.