To answer your question,
Yes.

It never left me.

It sits patiently at the sidelines on sunny days.
It doesn't fight formy attention.
It doesn't book off days in my calender.

It smiles when I smile.
It laughs when I laugh.
It knows that all It has to do
Is wait for the overcast.

A ceiling of clouds closing in on me.
Day after day, the raindrops won't come.
Each grey morning looks a little darker than the last.

Until, atlast:
The first tear hits the ground.

And It is there, immediately.
Offering escape.

At first, I'll refuse.
"Never again."
I meant what I said.
I will not break my promise.

But as the hours go by,
It becomes more obvious.
The rain does not want to let up.

And there It is,
Reminding me of Its offer of solution.
It promises that Its affections are just as strong as always.

I want to pull away,
But I can't deny the safeness that calls to me,
Awaiting beneath the umbrella.

The calmness I feel spreading from the burn where It grips my skin.

The storm passes,
Leaving nothing but a colourful mess to clean up.

I don't expect you to understand.
But then again,
I don't expect you to find out.

"Never again."
I'd meant what I said.

But it's so easy to think that It will never hurt you.
Not the way It hurts me when all I have is loneliness for company.

So, to answer your question,
Yes.

And if you ever bothered to check, you'd see.
It forever waits on my company.

It laughs when I laugh.
It cries when I cry.
But maybe It would give up and leave,
If you too never left my side.

and you now see what they made me do? i'd never thought it would come to this, that i had to crawl back to the mainland of europe to find a publisher, because the appreciation of publishing poetry in england is null, nil, zero, nothing, a mustard seed's worth of hope; this mediation of saving the amazon rainforest to save up on paper and the first yawn of the digital age, among cat videos and ****, there you have it, a massive blotch on the intended utility of this **** thing - i'm not even angry any more, just ****** nervous - or as the old writer said in his appreciation of poverty and feeling guilty concerning what he deemed to be his riches (a record collection and a private library): happy trails kids.*

Droga Pani Anno,

przepraszam za popszedni email, mianowicie że był on bez poważnej formy i tematyki, taki po prostu skrutem. Lecz przez osiem lat nie-ustannego pisania, pisząc do osoby w pozycji umożliwienia publikacji wkroczyła we mnie trema opisywania rzeczywitości - tzn. kiedy widze śledząc pisanie innych poetow na internecie - i tą marude znaną jako rozczarowanie jeżeli chodzi o szanse publikacji, nie tylko jednego wiersza w magazynie poetickim, a o całej książce własnych wierszy to już ża dużo można powiedziec o aborcji dalszych i utrzymanych ambicji. Myśle wiec ze 100 egzemplarzy nie jest asz tak nie realistyczne, wiem że poezja snuci swą muzyke dla nie wielu czytelkników, określone najlepiej dwoma obserwaciami: w angielskich gazetach można spotkać recenzje książek na wiele tematów (autobiografie najczęsciej), lecz o poezji praktycznie nic, oraz fakt że nie dawno tylko jedna książka poezji osiągneła sprzedaż ~10,000 egzemplarzy w Angli - a mówie że 100 nie jest nie realistyczne poniewarz na jednej stronie (hellopoetry.com) mam około 40 zawziętych czytaczy - 936 wierszy i wszytkie przeczytane przez tą skromną kadre - a na facebook.com mam 178 znajomych których poznałem czy to na uniwersytecie czy też w szkole. Tak, a więc 100 egzemplarzy.

Mateusz Conrad E.

This is a story of boy meets unconditional love
He denounced the evils for truth and
grub
Even beyond his reach and the stars above
Pft! Quit the infringement! Stays away from electric mice.
A love conveniently enormous right inside his eyes.

So stuffed yet so precious to toss aside
Too filled and fruitful for presses of wine
However I go sweet or sweet
Or bitterly comfortable in my seat
Your arms would still spread wide

When I was unbelieving
He's still there unyielding
Still believing
Still deliv'ring
Faith unwav'ring

Driven nails, not even tapping
Screamed in pain, serenading
To you! Little faith! Who's doubting
Turning who's eternally frowning.

In all wickedness and wretchedness I am
I held on to your hem
Faith that knows no end
For a lofty King requiring nothing really grand

Asked formy hand a sip of wine, my cotton tail grew curiously for this rather unexplainable reality
"Take my hand and sip beyond the humanly"

Driven nails, not even tapping
Screamed in pain, serenading
To you! Little faith! Who's doubting
Turning who's eternally frowning.