I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)

Sometimes
The panic
Is more dangerous
Than the pandemic

Smoke clouds smoulder the putrid sky,
capricious crowds rush hastily by.
Bricks and mortar for maculate miles,
the hustle and bustle; backwards smiles.
Eyes tamed vacant, tapered down;
a tracksuit warrior, wearing the town.
The city exhales, erupting with life;
it’s very beauty: boisterously wild.

Good friends, long drives and country nights
fast cars, dark roads and high-beam lights.
Complete content all in despite
the lives we lived we left behind.

An air so cramped with smoke we lined
we drink to death our whole design.
The world in which we all collide
is now the world we must refine.

Yet soon we must return confined
back into our joyless lives.
It’s this we must try to remind,
The very nature of mankind.

But why the rush? We need not hide.
We’re free of all that we declined!
At last, a path we can all ride
to drive and drive into the night.

Break my bones;
cut my throat.
Pull me open,
learn the ropes.

Breath me in;
taste the fear.
Shank my skin;
stand and cheer.

Kick my head;
let me bleed.
Unbolt my veins;
enjoy the read.

Gouge my eyes;
punch my face.
Wrap me up
in your embrace.