As the moon grew full
so did the sorrow in her mind,
the night she picked up the knife
instead of the pen
For the drops on the floor were more poetically true of
her innerself than her open ended words on that paper
could ever be...

and all the baby crickets chirp
I got the daisies planted and then appeared
numerous
red black bugs
swarming the daises the elderberry bushes
the crickets just watched all the festivity
like who are they they are not me
that is cricket talk  
especially when young
and the boxelder bugs in
swarms respond
in red black harmony of numbers
it is we the red black bugs of sap suckering
I chuckled
the crickets responded
by rubbing their back legs together
almost like
applause

Her narrow path kept winding as she hummed along in tune
To a song no one else heard, except her lover on the moon.
She skipped and ran and often fell,
But never wondered why
Some creatures fly to heaven and some simply die.
She listened to the others but they never heard her speak.
She was brave in her convictions but they thought of her as weak.
She tried to wear a normal hat but found it way too tight,
So she spread her tangled tendriled hair and found herself in flight.
It's a very lovely planet and she left it much too soon.
And though no one seemed to notice...
There was crying on the moon.

So, yeah.
This would all have been a lot easier
If I didn't have the heart of a

Poet.
But I'll say this: Please love to learn,
So we can have *** with

Semicolons in as suggestive a
******* as they would imply. I know
I lost my innocence to an

Adjective, but didn't we all?
There's no room for jealousy in
Poetry,

We just rhyme and give the rhyme
Time to define, and aline with the
Rhythm to create a devine

Relaxationary artpiece to be consumed
By any reader who would find the
Time to entwine with a sentence

Or line, and use'em to maybe just
Describe the feeling of a hand
On the face of a man as myself, who

Has written so much of the things one
Can touch, that he looks at the world
As a man that a girl

Can tell: Look at me, and say all
You can see is the face of Eternity.
I am that man, with a pen in his hand,

And you could say it, but I surely  
Know it: My body's a worker's.
My soul is a poet's.