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Morning coffee cup,
she pours coffee, fills it up.
She is good to me.


In a lonely house,
I'm the only one who's here.
Where have they all gone?
Garden slowly fades.
Winter soon will bring his ****;
January rime.


When the corn is tall,
when the stalks are high and white,
coolness rules the night.
(Adapted from the song, "Stop, look, listen to your heart"
by the Stylistics)

You're alone all the time
Does it ever puzzle you
Have you asked why
You seem to fall in love
And out again
Do you ever really love
Or just pretend
Why fool yourself
It's never too late

Though you try
You can't hide
All the things
You really feel
This time decide
That you will open up
Let it in
There's no shame
In sharing love
You keep within

It's been so long
And so hard
You've relied upon yourself
And tried to guard
That tender place
In your heart
All the while upon your face
You played the part
Of the needless one
In control
It's okay just let it go

There's so much more
There for you
And for you to get it all
You just have to
Stop and give it up
Just receive
Trust and just release it all
And then believe
It's never too late
Reading him is like                                                             ­                 
eating fine chocolates from a white box
Just one or two is not enough
But too many and you run the risk
of them seeming all the same
And if you really over indulge
you might ***** them all up
and never eat chocolates again
In a sea of liquid gold
Your boats are full
A bounty, an argosy wasted
Adrift with no wind to fill your sails

Anchors aplenty
Weigh you down
Pull at you and slow you
As you eat of yourself

Children on the shore
Beg a piece of bread
Just beyond your hearing
And conscience you have shed

Widows mourn their loss
Their houses you have taken
To the streets they go
Like you they are forsaken

He has rowed away
Beyond you in the sea
Left the dead to bury dead
Set the captives free
Like the Gentile woman said
even dogs get a treat
I just want to feel a scrap
of what you felt

Sink my teeth
into some meat

When I feel tired
When I feel old
When I lose hope

The words come
They fly into
the atmosphere above

They carry away
what I feel today
and drift into your grace

Away from my troubled face
into your grace
Words are all around.
I have picked them from the sky.
Words can never die.


How the words abound.
They have grown upon the tree.
Now my words are me.
The Haiku is looking back at you with indifference. It does not care about your self expressive desires, nor does it care about your career as a Haiku artist. It's just there, 5-7-5. Do you have a problem with that it asks?-Billy Collins
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