To look, or not to look: that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to forsake
The entertaining of such fanciful thoughts of love or lust
Or to pursue them against all odds of a benign response,
And by seeking, obtain? To look: to see:
Maybe more; And by a sight to find
In the glitter of an lined eye the interest and wanting
That impels said actions; ‘tis a reciprocation
Devoutly sought. To look: to see:
To see: perchance to lose: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that subtle glance what times may follow after
Whether the ice is broken or the heart instead,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of a choice to peek;
For who would bear the hurt of a scornful return,
A finding that the goddess is a medusa,
A turning of the fancies to stone,
A realization of disinterest, a knitting of the brows
A frown’s beginnings on a face so fair,
When she herself might her peace make
By refraining to meet the intended’s eye? Who would want
To face a rejection that is in all chance,
But for the regret that comes with a chance not taken,
Leaving what could be as what could have been
Forevermore, which makes us turn
And face the one to one million
Than never to face it at all?
Thus fear of rejections makes regretters of us all,
And thus the resolve to be one of a million
Is weakened by weighty o’erthought,
And an attempt to contemplate her soul through her eyes
With this regard are abandoned,
And lost to remain as fanciful thought.

Upon searching "not a poem"
Almost nine thousand non poems popped
Each one a slightly separate suggestion
On the mental conception of non poetry
A common theme that seems to seep into the souls of some
What makes words poetry is the purity that protrudes from paper
The song of sweet cries and lullabies
Escalating rage and hallucinations of bliss
So if,
A set of words no matter how weak, seeks a path past a draft in a memory shaft
It is a poem
Upon searching "not a poet"
There's a familiar theme of wannabe e.e. cummings
That can't see they are poets indeed
There's no prerequisite set of concepts to adhere to
What makes you a poet is your gift of expressing life through letters
Not just trendsetters and regretters
So if,
You can sit and explore a language and handpick the words that create magic
You are a poet.

I'm happy.
I'm so happy.
Because tomorrow
is just what I want...
But what if this,
The beers and the jokes,
what if that's what I really want.
My smile says so but
My eyes betray me every time.
We're so close and so far
and I just need our us here.
How do I face this?
I mean tomorrow too.
I'm scared and lonely
And happy and soaring.
But it's just so incomplete.
And it flows, that feeling.
From the back of my eyes
To that point in my chest.
And I'm faking a smile.
Becaue that's what regretters do.
That stone hard resolution
won't let me change my mind,
even if my resolve is half hearted.
I knew getting close was such a bad idea.
Its so much easier to have no one to miss.
But I will.
All the same.
Because you've burrowed like a tick
and you're leeching the ailments
right from my soul.
US.
I will miss it.
So much.

Eliot’s sealed letters
            redeemers and regretters
                      I did not want to upset her ...

                                          La Florida ...