Poetry by Pablo Neruda is something I was just forced to read,
for english class,
and maybe I could enjoy his poem,
called Poetry,
if the soul less bodies around,
could mindlessly stop! saying;
"this is pointless,"
"his poem is about poetry because of the title,"
"his poem has no meaning,"
and If I could focus,
I would of known the meaning,
or at least found meaning in it,
besides the one my stupid classmates found,
"just another ****** forced assignment"
"we will never get the meaning of"
but I know the meaning of his poem now,
"It was about the struggle to write,
and understand poetry to start with,"
and in a room full of people,
who don't get poetry,
maybe they could of gotten something from this lesson,
but, "we will never get the meaning of a forced assignment,"

Tonight I can write the thoughts I have for you.
So that someday when you read this, you'll think of me too.

I will write until the last moment.
For you have given me a life that is treasuring to spent.

You made me feel like I was in heaven.
You now have me seeking for a safe haven.

I hate the way you treated me.
I hate exactly what you did to me.

When you laughed at what I asked.
When you weren't there when I passed.

Tonight I can write the most bitter of them all.
For this will be the mark that for you, I hardly fall.

I will write for I can still recall the memories.
The memories we had full of joy and bliss.

Those moments where you are still with me.
That moment where in your side is the safe place to be.

I will write for I had been hurt with the things you've said.
Those thoughts of you made my heart break 'til it bled.

Tonight I can write for I can't get over you.
Because it would be the hardest thing I cannot do.

A book,
just pages
on leaves, whitened-
river washed,
dried then wettened again;
tears of words
torn from a heart-
his then mine, and mine again.

A book
of poems, written verse,
la poema-
the saddest lines of all,
but not all, no,
not all; not always.

Pages of Odes;
oh, the odes
to fruit,
to wine
and song
of the sea and mermaids;
the pages sing his songs.

A book
of heights
and stone,
he took us there-
a shovel in the sand;
of monuments
and ships
of drunken men and love
once loved,
and loved again.

Words
on silken thighs,
*******
and a red dress-
on a dark night
the stars and moon did shine.

A garden-
he planted a *****
into our hearts;
his dog,
it died
simply
loved too much-
Ai.

A book,
just a book
of pages,
of poems
by my bed-
dog-eared,
much read and loved;
his words ending
the saddest lines of all.

r ~ 8/15/14