A poet shy shuffled into my office
She placed her poem on my desks farthest corner
This is my very best work, said she timidly
I looked it up and down nerveously
This will certainly die, said i
She looked me up and down nerveously and began to cry
And sprinted out the door
What a waste i thought of this "poet"

Another day a poet very mad swaggered into my nook
He ****** his poem at my feet
This is my very, very, best work, said he loudly
I peered at it very briefly
This is very, very, bad
He lingered briefly and with hardly a friendly word
And swaggered out
I had nothing nice to think of this "poet"

But just today a poet kind, a poet clever walked into my home
He put his poem into my hand
this is my favorite work said he kindly, cleverly
I read it through calmly
This is my favorite too said i
He shook my hand and thanked me calmly and walked out the door
That is a true poet i thought

Hang up the phone
Please
Give yourself space
Yell at me
Scream at me
Hurt my feelings
Please
Give
Give me
Give me the chance
To show you
that no matter what ill always be here
To show you just how dedicated to you I am
How no matter how much you
SCREAM
YELL
Or hang up your phone
Shut me out
That I will always
Always
Be here

Why can't you just stay my friend?
She asks
Things were so good my friend
She says
Why does it have to change my friend?
She asks

Because...
I said
Friendships grow...
My love

Poetry can be written in the dark or it can be written in the light
Its written in the open
Its written behind a locked door
Its shown in movements
Its shown in sounds
Its funny
Its sad
Its inspiring
Its for children
Its for birds
And dogs
And cats
And people
But the one thing that poetry must be
Is that it must be
From your HEART
And more importantly it must form from passion

Inside your heart

Or else it will be swept up and shoved down
By all the hate
Apathy
Laziness
Contempt
That is more than plentiful in this world
Poetry must be passion
Or else its another recycled paper
Or another deleted file
Or failed grade
Passion and only passion from the heart
       Inspires
Entrances
             And grows

In our childhoods the biggest want and the most creative entertainment
Were toys
We whined
We pined
We begged
We even bartered outrageously
That we might serendipitously
Find the strings
The felt cloth
The plastic so pristine
Under a tree
Or under our beds
Or behind the backs of those who love us
But even hours go by and
The plastic shatters
The felt tears
The strings snap
And the most regretful of all things
The dust settles

Take my heart
But leave my soul alone
Leave my slate unswept
Leave my mind unbiased
My innocence intact
I wear my heart on my sleeve to let those who wish
To see it
To soothe it
Or **** it as they choose
But my immortal soul
My unknown reputation
My fluxuating mentality
And my receding innocence
Are mine to form
Are mine to shift
Are mine to mold
They
Are
MINE
Leave them be
Take my heart instead

Even plastic collects dust
Bright fibres of pink become dull magentas
From the countless years and endless days of Still life Sharp lines and smooth contours of artistically machined plastic toys become fuzzy as hazy dust
Piles
Heaps
And overflows
From one
Single
Fact
Inactivity?
Unappreciated worth?
Discontent?
Laziness?
No
None of these
The dust collects
Piles
Heaps
Even overflows
From USELESSNESS
The things that the dust is attracted to
That the dust clings to
Are the things that in comparison to the things that are imparitive to our existance and our health
Are useless
Are plastic