I'm a loser, I'm a loner...

nah **** that,

I'm a loner,
but I've never been a loser,
It's just what seems to come
with someone,
who is happy on their own,
a solitary traffic cone,
yeh im all too happy alone,
on the motorway that is life,
yeh it fits like a knife,
in this sandwich filled with strife,
having people to impress,
Just feels like another test,
thought I was done with school,
I was always too school for cool,
so I've just learned to live with it,
who needs a girl piece when you've got yourself to fit,
in the jigsaw of happiness,
don't care if my life's a mess,
it's not a mess to me
that's how it should be,
noone to impress,
no worries or stress,
just me,
being me.

When did it change
When did we break
What made you leave
What made me stay
My heart is broken
And you're just fine
Im waiting on you
While you're moving on

what is the matter,
he asks,

unable to see,
maybe unwilling,

that there is
no matter
to nothing.

I want to thank Vicki, Poetry Journal, Paul Butter, Adhi das, Mia, FJ Davis .
Anu, Sukeeti, Paul Gaffney,NvrMd, Pradip, It gonna make sense, Marian.
Timothy,Jasmine,Georgia,Janiloms,Iluvia,Nameless wonder,Firefly, Bianca.Mike Hauser , Mohamed ,Falen Acon,MydystopiA, Vanessa Gatley, and Nicole.
Plus so many more whom poems are so beautiful, they touch us all.
I just want to let you all know on here that you are truly appreciated.
For all of your beautiful words , feelings that went into your poems.
I just wanted to say thank you to each and everyone of you all here.
God bless each of you today and every single day that you live here.

Once a month in the ghost restaurant
        we bring wine,
        we light candles.
Alan (veterinarian) recites a rowdy lyric
        about the cloacae
        of waterfowl.
Dennis (percussionist, oldies band)
        recites from his bar stool about a pretty lass
        courted by men at a dance, it’s his daughter,
        she saves the last dance for him.
Lynette (social worker) tells how her big brother
        tricked her into looking down
        the nozzle of a hose.
Bob (physical therapist) sings about fishing
        in Canada, then selling all the fish
        to Japan.
Joyce (office manager) reads a poem she wrote
        about music,
so I (contractor, retired) tell about singing
        la la la
        to my grandson
        who needs constant holding.
We all agree holding is a good thing
        but hugging among men is an acquired skill
        not taught in Ohio.
Terry (maintenance man) reads a poem
        about the secret meanings
        of words.
Denise (nobody knows what she does) tells a story
        about hitchhiking in France
        where trapped in a truck
        in the remote alps
        with a man’s hand on her thigh
        she thwarts the tough guy
        by singing songs from The Sound of Music.
Bob washes the wine glasses;
        Terry returns the key to its hiding place.
        We hug, some of us anyway.
Our little town, once a month.
        Literature, home-grown.

A single
word.
A single
touch.
A single
smile.
Can make
your day
worthwhile.