I've never written a limerick.
Thinking of it makes me sick.
Better a sonnet
or a woman upon it.
Maybe, I'll just play with my ****.

Was reality,
created
found
Forged
Forced
Or was it naturaly
Explanatory?
Was it or is it ..
You have to disprove it ....
Or if not ....
Then it is what it is ...
I t  I  s

If she is not help herself
Estranged angels
Have not forgotten their way

Hubris taxis
star gated
galactic gringos
venerated.

It's April now and my skin is still as white
as the paper in which I whisper and write.
It hurts.
I want to see your face again.
It's summer now and my heart is still as cold
as if I'm another slave successfully sold.
It stings.
I want to hear your laugh again.
It's April now and my body is still as stiff
as a branch of a tree below a mountain cliff.
It burns.
I want to be with you again.
It's summer now yet it's winter in my soul
as if I know how winter feels, I'm a fool.
But it's cool.
I just want to see your face again.