I love my maths...
And I do my poetry...
Inborn is the art...
Reborn is the goemetry...

When my lines are void of profection
I get to balance the equation
What a joy I get in providing solution
With my rhythm and its variations

My love for art is to infinity
Playing around with numbers is divinity
And when I get confused in the mapping
I resolve back to my writings.

at 4 in the
morning the sun
is never up
but i usually am

i worry
about things
that are out of
my control
even more about
things that are

get up early
when i work
and earlier
when i don’t
the older i get the
more i learn
sometimes you
need to cry it out

alone
at night
into your pillow
the blankets
wrapped all
around you

sometimes you
need to cry
and cry
and cry

until the morning
sun falls across
the tears dried
under your lashes

and the lump
in your throat has
dissolved so you can
breathe with ease

you need to get up
let hot water
wash it away
let the steam rising
from your mug soften
any sorrow left around
your morning eyes
take a deep breath
don’t mention it
to anyone

and
just
keep
going

i will
just
keep
going

After the parting
They burnt the letters
Sacks and bags
Envelopes and folders
No one wanted to read
The significance inside.

I slid down the side
Of the velvetine covered bed
And sat amongst my treasures
On a brown wooden floor
If tears could break a vase
Mine would all be shattered.

Love Mary **

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.