Sometimes,
I think to myself,
that it's too good to be true.
Then I find myself wondering,
how I could be with somebody like you.
Only one date in,
it felt like a sin.
Because you're too pretty,
to be with a guy like me.
I guess it's really just,
my self esteem.

But I got to say
(I would probably every day)
You're just so ****** beautiful.

How to say it tho?
Of that I don't know,
how to show,
my thoughts when they're truly that sincere.

I mean, it's only been one month.
We really don't see each other much.
But you're really happy?
With me?

I'd show you this.
But then I might miss.
The chance for another date.
It's just,
I really appreciate,
the way that you're so thoughtful.
You listen and you're kind.
You never even say it if my poems are awful!

What is it I like so much?
You're,
well,
you're just as you as can be.
And nobody else.
And that's why you're so special.

A bird.....or a place.
Maybe a thought,
perhaps a memory?

I could choose one.

Something important to me,
and express it through poetry.

Piece by piece, line after line.
Each one a thought of mine.

What to write about?
In this time of writer's drought?

If it wrote about what I feel,
would my poem become "too real?"

If I wrote about you,
would that be just a cliche too?

But cliches are the best,
if you let them be so.
I'll throw away thoughts of the rest.
It's my feelings I want you to know.

I'll write about a girl,
new to my world,
that sets my thoughts ablaze.

Brand new adventures await,
new memories galore,
and many a place to explore.

I don't really know,
what sets you aglow.

Or when you're down,
how to cheer you up.

But I've got my poems;
that seems to be enough.

Some lines rhyme.
Others not as well.
Still you never mind.  

My thoughts are poems.
My feelings I've got to show them.

So this poem was written for you.
I hope you like it, and don't mind it.
Because I want you to like me too.

"The tallest poplar I'll grow to be,"
said the young tree.

"Standing above the rest,
I'll be crowned the best.
Fortified and grown,
the forest will be mine to rule alone."

Ripped from the roots,
and cut down by a man in boots,
the dreams quickly faded.
"There's not much to make of me now"
Thought the tree,
whose complexion quickly changed
from wide-eyed to jaded.

Hauled onto a truck  
Off he went.
To the lumberyard,
the young tree was sent.

Chopped to pieces,
stripped of his bark.
Our young poplar was afraid his life,
would never leave a mark.

"Some wooden crates they'll make of me"
"The peaks of the other trees I'll never see"

"I'm useless, I'm broken"
"In the forest my name will never be spoken"

The story doesn't end though,
it's only just begun.
For the life of this tree,
is one that's not yet done.

The lumber was chopped, cut, and carried.
To a town of a man named Jack,
who was poor but newly married.

"I've got little money, but I make good shoes"
"I've got to take care of my wife, I've nothing left to lose"

"I'll open a store, and become a cobbler"
"And with the money I make, I'll buy my family something proper."

So Jack took his life savings.
And off he went, to open a store,
To make enough money to pay the rent.

Our poplar was still together,
chopped into many pieces.
Next to some hardware supplies,
and a vendor selling fleeces.

"I'll take that lumber, it'll do the job."
"Just take my money, and I'll be along"

Years passed by as Jack labored hard.
A few kids came along, a house, and a fenced in yard.

One day a special man came to town.
Not the type of man that you see every day,
for this man wore a royal crown.

"Wooden clogs I need for my feet"
"To keep them dry as I walk along the damp street"

A chance to make shoes for a king,
this was enough to make Jack sing.

He looked through his supplies,
they weren't enough.
To build shoes fit for a king,
would be quite tough.

"I have just the wood, "
he thought to himself.
"From when I first built my shop,
there is some left on the top shelf.

So he took the remaining scraps,
and he made new shoes.
Shoes for royalty,
clogs fit for a man more special than me.

And now our poplar finally got his chance.
To join in the royal dance.
And on the king's feet he stays.
Helping him rule the land for the rest of his days.

So, if you find yourself cut down before you grow.
Just remember, and make sure you know.
Your chance will come, sooner or later.
To become a part of something greater.

Quiet.
Cold.
Wet.
Comfortable.
Intimate.

My hiding place.
My thinking spot.
My living room.
My secret space.
My worn out thoughts.
My ridiculous emotions.

Nature's trees.
Pond's ripples
Duck's quacks.
Cloud's shapes.
Heaven's rays.

Sitting.
Thinking.
Feeling.
Learning.
Reading.
Crying.
Laughing.

I do it all here.

Is it words?
Is it rhythm?
Is it emotion?

Thoughts just jumbled onto a page,
in hopes that they match some literary device?

Structure.
Or imagery.
Parallel
                          ....lines?
Outside of
                                  ....the box?

But what's a box besides,
                                        What we make it?

Why can't we take
                our perspective,
                shift it    
                          ,
                                around
                                            And change it?
Write poems for,
                          a
                              new (or even all of them)
                                  generation(s)?

They don't have to rhyme.
Or make sense.
Or even be legible.
As long as it helps you, isn't that enough?

"But others read them too"

But they don't always.
Some poems I write on my worst days.
They're
            bad.
They don't,
                  rhyme.
My handwriting is.........
                                      crap.

The words aren't
                          even eloquent.
Putting
            them (my thoughts that is)
                          down to paper helps
                                    me  though.  (or is that too selfish)

But what
                is a
                          poem (a real one)
anyhow?

I guess I'll never, really, know.

Wrap me in paper.
Adorn me with ribbons.
A tag addressed "only for you."
I shall offer the most fragile of gifts, myself.