We lend so much life
To so many things
That have no need of it
And we take all we can
From those that so desperately crave it.

i think about you
and i wonder
how long this can last

i'd like for you to take my hand
whenever i need you
like you did the last time
i'd like to take your hand
and walk down this road  

i don't like to think about us
apart

for you
at 11:11 i'll make a wish
that we'll be together
our fingers laced
even at the very end

Even though my eyesight would get blurry,
and everything would look like pixels,
I would still recognize you from a far.
The guy who got a camera on his hand,
trying to photograph the world before he's gone.
And I know, you won't be able to recognize me.
Because I was just another stranger you met.
and I was only someone you spent some time with.
But you know what?
Those moments are the memories
I cannot forget.
For you made me feel special,
more than I have ever felt,
in my whole life
And that's pretty something
For a girl who has always been nothing.

No One Person

No one dancer moves like another,
No one singer like another –
So unique are we.
Movement, voice, technique and timbre
All unique and at their best lyric
(pronounced lyreek).
How I adore
To see the store
Of talent and capacity,
Technique and flair,
Dexterity and artistry
In all from dress designer
To the finer forms from
Sculptor, painter,
To the lesser forms – whatever
They may have as name,
The  nomenclature all the same to me.
Movement, sound,
The world goes round
In every creature’s singularity.
That’s all.  Take care.

No One Person 5.20.2017
The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Nature Of & In Reality;
Arlene Corwin

A settle bit
On my lips
To take away  
To take away
The settle hint
Of pain-
In my heart
It won't go
I'm left the same once again
Alone in my head
False reality of comfort
you'd shown
-It's how you always
Left us
And I'm scared
Of being alone

She wouldn't, couldn't give her name,
but they still took her in when she called.
I visited, adopted her,
though she must have been in her twenties.

We called her Monica. It seemed to fit.
She never spoke, sitting at her half opened window,
sampling a sliver of the fraught stree air.
I don't think she could take any more of the real world.

She stayed there safe in her dull, blue walled retreat,
an observer, lacking a ticket of entry.
And when darkness fell, and the curtains were closed,
the house lights went up on her secret, inner theatre.