Another finger tip,
another fine gentle brush of your skin.
Like a canvas you have painted this master piece.
Yet the pieces are made of me.
As the water colors start to run,
So do my emotions.
Or what is left of them.
I've really ****** up.
I've really ****** up.
I've really ****** up.
And now,
the canvas is complete.
First love,
gone.
First ****,
gone.
First soul mate,
gone.
I'm in pieces,
and soon I will be gone.

Always!*  
fall in love with a poet,
they cannot disguise the truth,
yet, soften it when needed, somehow,
for the only words they possess
are kindness and kindness...

Should you travel with a poet,
new ways of seeing will they introduce,
delighting you, and for ever in you, delight,
for every word that passes thru their lips,
gifts to keep, for the days of when...

There cannot be always good times,
poets know, so they write today,
for when tomorrow's intrusion is
the other end of life's continuum,
their words recalled, restore, revive...

Poets are the predecessors,
your torment, anguish, they have known,
so when they write today, it is
preparation when the future demands,
changes that require tissues, shoulders, arms...

Worry not about their torment,
t'is a seasonal change, comes and goes,
but in the winters of your life,
yours - warm fire, warm poets, summer kind words,
so, always, always,


Always fall in love with a poet...