This patchwork quilt city is composed
of buildings all lined up in rows,
though their stories are of different hues:
reds and browns and whites and blues.
And towering over the different peoples
are the restaurant roofs and church steeples
who compose an elegant skyline,
both jagged and yet quite sublime.
But woven through the very work
are the opinions, pride, and, yes, the quirks
of all the people who live here
who think it mad, yet hold it dear.
The city of peace,
bathed in the blood of martyrs,
and built on their bones.
Love is just a word,
but “loyalty”, “devotion”?
Those are so much more.
We danced in the rain,
and made love in the dark.
When we were done,
you broke down and cried.
You told me your secret,
and I loved you all the more.
Thank you for being my girl
even though I can never be yours.
A novel wonder,
the thrill of an unwrapped gift –
who knows what’s inside.
A hope spun out on spider’s thread
that breathes new life into the dead;
a grace that lies within the breeze
that lets the gifted breathe with ease.
A long draught for the thirsty man,
and sunshine for the darkened land.
A song that breaks the silent night;
a balm which makes the weary light.
The feeling that the poet seeks,
which brings a blush to ladies’ cheeks;
the artist who paints over blue
by simply saying, “I love you.”
The taste of her lips
remained after all this time,
a soft memory.
A deep betrayal,
“I can never forgive you
for what you have done.”
There are as many
definitions for poetry
as there are Poets.
All of them are right,
and all of them are wrong.
Arrogant poet,
think you’re so fucking special?
Get a fucking job.
A (wise) man of two faces 