******* a poet
You'd think it would be easy.

Just avert your eyes, don't see me.

Let my words flounder upon pages unread,
surely that's the way to make a poet dead.

Alas I must say that's very far from true.
You see lonely poets write even more poetry
when they're feeling blue.

When they're feeling beat down, broken, torn in two,
It seems that's when their best work shines through.

So, How do you **** a poet?
I wonder why you'd want to.

But hey that's just my opinion,
if you still do.

Try a gun that usually works!

Sometimes it feels,
the world spins just for me.

Sunrises and sets,
appearing magically.

Night skies flickering,
Milkyway drifting by,

It's enough to bring tears to my old eyes.
This majesty of being alone,
A bit of a miracle all on its own.

On this big blue marble eight billion call home.

Some no doubt are seeing exactly what I see,
and I wonder if they feel as special as me?

Do they stare into the sky and think to themselves,
it spins just for me?

My God I hope they do!!!

I wonder why some poems
flounder and some poems fly.

I do not cry, or ponder to long,
for to write simply for others
somehow seems wrong.

I've written many lines
that will never see the light of day,
not that their better or worse
than those on display.

Their just a piece of me I'm not ready to give away.

I know that notion may seem obscene,
what could he possibly be hiding
that we haven't yet seen?

I can assure you in the grandest scheme of things
my skeletons are few,
But shouldn't a poet always hold
at least one secret
or maybe even two?

What is the value of a life
Of a husband or a wife 
Of a daughter or a son.

Do these labels give value to one,
More so over the other?

Is a wife less valuable than a mother,
A father more valuable than a son?

Does value rise or fall
as one becomes another?

Surely every life can't be worth the same!
Can it?

 I wonder.
Is a peasants life,
of less value than a kings!

Or does Status, Creed, Race, or Color,
truly, not mean a **** thing?

It is true that I would place my
wife, my son, and my brothers
life over that of another.

But that value is given to them only by me.
No life is worth more
than any other in reality.

Yet until we can open
our hearts and minds to see.

The true value of life will never be!

If I was ten years younger
I'd show you a thing or three!

I was only seventeen
She was at least twenty years older than me.

But I was in the mood for her knowledge
and she taught with style and grace.

And thinking back, even now
it puts a smile on my face.

I loved her through the summer
It ended in the fall.

And I never told a soul.
She was married after all.

I heard the other day
that she had passed away.

So I visited her one last time
and discreetly
I placed a rose upon her grave.

I thanked her for the lessons learned
and all the love she gave.

The moon rises high into the night.
Casting reflections across the rain soaked streets.

Images of you walking away is all I see.

I chase you through the ripples,
disappearing beneath my feet.

I chase you through the dawn
until your reflection is just gone.

And through tears I wonder,
Will you ever return to me?

Or will your reflection
haunt me forever,
within my memories.