I have pools of sadness within me,
of unfathomable depths.
I do not know how it is that
my sadness cannot be measured—
only doled out in spoonfuls:
a bitter medicine
taken daily.

I think people need to be looked at in the eye and told "you are kind and good. you are kind and good. you are kind and good."

There you watch the movies
and you see them, the leads,
holding hands and walking off
into the sunset.
I wonder what it is like
to walk off into the sunset,
to feel like all your worries are going to be
dissipated by the sun's golden heat
and you're gilded and beautiful, heart soft,
and you think: this is as good as it gets
but then all of a sudden someone shouts "Sike!
it's just a movie set"
and then you realise that tan was fake
and the actors never liked each other anyway.
I tell you it makes my heart ache,
those deceiving sunsets by the bay.

A loving kiss that melts my heart.
A smile that warms my soul.
A Happily Ever after...

For you maybe,
But not me.

Beethoven's Ninth;
Mozart's Thirty-Eighth;
What do they lack
Artistically speaking?
They lack the music of the buttocks,
The celestial odourous ****
Which charmeth all who hear it.
Although admittedly Schubert
Left an unfinished movement
On the floor near his piano
And the whiff was something horrid.

I was asked,
Why do you write so much.

I wasn't sure how to respond,
Should I say it's my happy place,
My escape?

Or perhaps it's my attitude,
The reason I walk with strength not weakness.

It makes me brave,
And courageous.

So my question for you,
Is why don't you write?

I just wanted to say that
poetry is like a breath of fresh air
after being enclosed far too long
in a room far too small