She writes poetry
As though she knows me,
But what a facade
She's really seen.
Only a surface glean.
Calm still water,
Digging below the depths,
Raging saline.

Considers protest at disrespect,
To be the sigil
Of a *****.
In reality
He who chokes down ****
And smiles through it,
Is in actuality.
But what is it,
To remit?

What an email,
Can reveal!
Embedded within the message,
What simple words unravel;
From where, and whom, they have traveled!
How much one can extrapolate
From mere more than chatter,
It would be astounding if not frightening
That you can tap out so much
From just dry lightning.

She's an amazing woman,
If only she thought similiary
Of me.

How little men control
Their own destinies.
At a lost,
As to my internal monologue,
In a deluge of constant questioning.
And as to the control I do command,
With what to, is done?
As to the destiny I am ******,
Is it better to dither from forver, hitherto?
Or slaughter fear, and give anxiety the rub.

Free use,
I take it, it's from the abuse
And how it plays on your psyche
It's beyond me
Cause you talk
But I don't know, if honestly.
I know you hurt,
I love you.

Like Schrödinger's Cat
Love is too large
To quantify in contradictions
Like the cat in the box
In it's superposed zombie state
I too can't determine
If our love is alive or dead
And like the cat,
In reality it cannot be both
But I think I'll leave it
Forever in this zombie state
Of unknown perpetual mystery

For I cannot uncover
What I've already buried