A little boy and his mother were talking one day.
The little boy was having a great time.Asking all sorts of question.
When out of the blue the boy did ask.Why do you cry at night?
Is it because I am mad? See if it is because you are sad?
Is it because you miss Dad?
Oh, why do you cry?
Is it because you are cold or is it because I'm coming old?
Is it because you are lonely?
So mom why do you cry?

Rewarded is the one
who cares the least.
New love, new world
it's the saddest thing.
Cry a thousand times
for a tear from you.
Big love, small chance,
new lovers dance.

I live i die, im all too human
very human, so human ive lost track
of what time it is

The duration of events between my  life and death
is it time? is it life? I'm living and clock's ticking
all the same, so humanly same

time has value, like its money
time is valuable, some formulae told me
time is money, and we run according to it
so human, so humanly insane.

Coming home from a fair,
cusped between your lap
a globe of darting eyes,
your hands rested atop
the thin film of a world
as you endlessly peer in.
Are you scrying over
your future career?

Here a tungsten bulbous
body, a chunk of flame,
swills itself in spins
and mindless dances,
as you think you could
be so careless like them
to live hazily in a framed
bubble of treasured youth,

fed by some divine fate
looking over you. Golden
scales make your skin,
binds you as if you were
a chocolate in a wrapper
for people to circus over–
every flicker being edible.
Or maybe you're like

those tinned peach slices,
posing in a cage for all  
as a marvel to feast with
until you end up rotting,
there in your tomb-space,
muttering an open mouth,
“help me” before they serve
you up on a silver-lined dish.

I assure you, you'll forget
these childish thoughts
of aspirations and dreams
sooner than you think:
no matter how much
you think they want you,
I'll bet they'll let yourself
drown in coming weeks.

She was once solid
Determined to get the highest marks:
#1 in her class, trying to exceed all expectation

Medicine was her dream; okay with dead bodies and curious as to how they got that way

She came to this country to find something

She was solid
Community college was too expensive
And her bulging belly preceded her whimsical marriage

Her two children, she loved dearly for a good portion of time

Her husband, not so, not faithful, not whole was her love for him; he was all she couldn't be he was solid

She came to every PTA meeting and every class trip
Too attached

She was liquid
She became those around her, those moms at PTA meetings

Sneaking liquor on school busses heading to Disney World; pretending they love their hardworking husbands
And leaving their children

She began to have other aspirations
Dead people didn't fancy her anymore, sanguine faces was all she knew
She was liquid

She let her children go, so young, so foolish
Not whole

The oldest was most appalled and began to act out by not acting out

The oldest was locked away for a bit; the youngest still loved her mothet so sweetly, so faithfully

She was clay
Her friends-which change every year or so
Have molded her
And she is solid

You're so vain
You probably think
I wrote this poem about you
That I think of you
That I still care at all

The truth is
I miss you
I wish you meant
Nothing at all

the best poetry is full of joy
unashamed of its tired clichés
because tasteful, articulate things
have been weighed in the balance and found wanting
and 'good music taste' is not really good
when the music has no real melody
and doesn't get your heart pumping
the best poetry gets your heart pumping
and your soul throbbing, yearning for more.
it is not pretentious,
it does not tell itself 'you are not good enough'
even though it is fashionable to have low self-esteem
it dances and refuses to abstain from its own glory
the best poetry is shining
and does its best to polish off its tarnished spots
rather than glorifying them
the best poetry admits its own repetition
but history is not a bad thing
tradition is not bad merely because it is traditional
the best poetry breathes life into the heart of everyone who reads it
spreads light
gives air to that which had been oppressed-
the best poetry does not wallow, complain, or remain stagnant-
the best poetry is beautiful,
and the best poetry resembles
the truth of the beautiful people who wrote it.