we do not write poetry
we write mirrors
which are held up
to curious faces
who read
looking for their
own reflections

To the next person who says St.Patrick’s day is all about leprechauns and rainbows:
I will grab my ancestors’ immigration papers and beat you over the head with them.

Tho' modern pen has lost a cursive touch
and words archaic; poet's old cliches,
electric type has still the phrase to clutch
and render beauty's make through sonnet praise.

Have I then prompt to key my quill to prove
iambic worth has ink for grace so rare?
Tho' words cannot do just, nor then improve
but page her beaut for those that cannot stare.

A lady's fair in metered writ, romance!
And have so in; revered poems of old
now newer peach must too afford a chance
to muse a bard, that none her flair withhold.

Let modern sonnet's ode new blush to art!
And tho' from present phrase, they still impart.

Paint me a picture
Of your skin
Does it bronze beneath the sun?
Or sizzle and blush
Like your cheeks
When you’re in love?
Is it soft to the touch
Like when your palms graze
The smooth surface of water?
Or rough around the edges
Like your favorite book
And its lovingly worn corners?
Does it melt in the heat
Like sweet syrupy treats
Dripping through your fingers?
Or does it welcome the winter
With wide open arms
As if greeting a lover?
Paint me a picture
Of your skin

I'm not cool
Never been cool
I've been with the women
And lived the many long nights
But I was never cool
I was never the "man"
I was just myself
And I can look into the mirror now

My own lemon tree!
Bear fruit for me
I will eat your babies
With love :)

I take a pill
Every night
Before bed
And it keeps away
The panic
The compulsions
The stress
The perfectionism
The drive
The desire for excellence
The 4.0 student
Everything that was
Killing me
And
Creating me
So, now I have to decide
Is it worth it?