I could give you words
and things
and thoughts
and moments in the sun

and promise you
no promises to break
if you’d just let me
love you for a while

There was a young lady back then
Who started the music again
With poetry flowing
And emotions growing.
But she left and the words just quit rhyming

Cracked up.
Total breakdown.
Unexpected.
Just one day
I went out of your mind

A day or so of yesterday
I walked this land in joy.

Why am I so lonely now?
Why am I still here?
Waiting, always waiting.
Longing – where is she?
There is no end, I fear.
I will not be free.

Looking back to gentler days
and forward not at all
I find myself
Just wishing
that my life
would
simply
stop.

I watched the moth flittering
around my light, frittering
time and life away.

And in the light of day,
below the light, he lay.
Dead and gone.

Like the words I meant to write
to say,
to make you stay.

I am a painter,
not a poet.
Painting with an alphabet brush.

Colors only you can see –
red to you
is different to me.

A Mona Lisa smile
might be a frown,
when written down.

I do not write
to make you see
my world as I see it.

I paint with words
what you already know
but don’t know how to say it.

Facebook, Twitter, and texts
have did thier best
to obliterate
the english language.
Gramer, spelin, capitels,
and all that sort
are goin the road
of dinasours

Can't we please
B Literate?