Ooooh no I don't want that, the **** thats growing there
Oh, and why not? Surely it has a right that piece of earth to share
No it's such an ugly thing growing with my plants
No its not and you should give every **** a chance
Look at my rose, that beauty growing over there, are you telling that  that **** really can compare
Friend that rose is man made and I agree a work of art but that fair rose so beautiful from a **** did make a start
I dont agree I dont agree how could my rose have sprung from that
Oh thats quite easy friend scientists did that

But how can you just stand there and say a weeds a lovely flower
Well why not take a closer look at sometime in this sunny hour
Sorry I cant go with that its a **** its not a flower
Well I cant make you believe but every beautiful garden flower
Started life as humble **** as did the vegetables you devour

My heart was glass then you
left, it did fracture so slightly,
barley visible to those around,
but was plain for me to feel as
it cut a thousand times in to me.

I thought it would heal, but
words spoken about us, what
I meant to you, the fracture became
a crack, as I grabbed at my chest
as it could now be felt cutting even
deeper I to the feelings within me.

Then the words I thought I would
never hear, from the lips of others
whispers that screamed at me. I
asked a truth to you and then my
heart shattered in to pieces as you
said you never loved me.

I could have tried to pick up this
fragile thing, but now my heart
is replaced by steel, glass was
weak as now I see, ill never
let another shatter my heart
as it is now cold solid steel
to me.

small cheap rooms where you walk
down the hall to the
bathroom can seem romantic to
a young writer.
even the rejection slips are
amusing because you are sure that
you are
one of the best.

but while sitting there
looking across the room
at the portable typer
waiting for you on the table
you are really
in a sense
insane

as you wait for
one more night to arrive to sit and
type Immortal Words--but now you
just sit and think about it
on your first afternoon in a strange city.

looking over at the door you
almost
expect a beautiful woman to walk in.

being young
helps get you through
many senseless and terrible
days.

being old
does
too.

This bull's horns are oily
Alas my hands just slip
How am I to seize the day
If I cannot get a grip

Yes.
I watch you
On the pillow; your hair is a
Holy halo gilded by the
Goddess of
Gold
Herself.
Your mouth open in
Innocent oblivion.
I watch you sleep
So far from
Feeling the
Least bit
Creepy.
You make sleep beautiful.  
Angelic is your
Default.
Baby.

This proverbial palace of pen
And paper has room for
Exactly as many as
We are.
Together.
People of Parchment, welcome.
Move in.

Poem has room for your every letter,
Each one of your feelings, all
Pleasure; all hurt.
It's diary, -hallways that go on
Forever-
That you can explore in your mind,
It is birth

Of things that you love, that you see
Your own features in.
Thoughts fit for sharing with minds
Like your own.
It's channel for channeling, channel
For handling the things that arise,
You are never alone.

It's words to the pictures of love
That you witnessed, it's tellings of
Hardships you had
To withstand.
It's more discriptive of lust and of
Pleasure than movies you watch in
The dark with
Your hand.

The Palace of Poem has room for
Each poet. The doors are unlocked,
See the sign: "Vacancy."
Interiour's custom, your personal
Taste as design, and don't ask:  
It is perfectly free.

In here there's no grown-ups,
We're children; just taller.
No bedtime, no said time to eat or
Come home.
In here you can choose to create
When you're crying, or laughing or
Tickled or cut to the bone.
-
It's a palace fit for the Kings and
Queens of Expression
That truly live in your
Every
Mirror.