Fights

Fights

I'll never win an argument.

I can't be alone

Despite who claims the victory

With him displeased with me,

Whether I am right or wrong,

Or only think I am.

I must have favor in his eyes

Before I go asleep.

 

Almost Like Before

I just got the manner back -

Though such a subtle thing -

Head and heart united

In a small and little man

Who doesn't know a thing.

My poesy is like a moth -

Grey dust upon its wings -

Moths, completely harmless,

Attracted to a light.

I'm writing like I use to right.

I thought it couldn't happen.

Honesty – the soul of life,

The heart of poetry.

I don't want to be like Keats

If I can be myself.

 

A Quote

Sick and crazy. I'm so old.

Poetry unites.

How many minds have I?
Wearing earphones,

Connie Francis

Singing in the stereo,

Something after 3 a.m.,

Sitting, sweating

In the darkness

Typing letters -

This is bliss,

Like being drunk,

I wish it could

Go on forever.

Who am I?
I'm lost in silence.

Wilde in exile

Said in France

To a stranger,

“Merci pour

Ecouter. Je suis beaucoup

Seul.”

 

How?

How a poet learns to write.

Not in an academy.

He sits and writes, and while he does

Remembers what he did.

What makes any artist gifted?
Just the Muses know.

Ask them. Ask them constantly.

They will not tell their secrets.

This lesson does not come from Keats.

I noticed it myself.

I write the sweetest songs of all.

Absolutely nothing.