Some poems I wrote long ago.

Version One – Is this the reality of Love?

Can it be that you polish the stars just for her?

Is that you who dances on the moon every Saturday night?

And every day, is it such that you carry the sun

Across the sky upon your back just for her?

Oh blue eyes of heaven, how you adore her;

And is it such that you spin this world round just for her

Oh how your feelings run deep in the salty ocean depths

Your spirits softly treading high among the feathery clouds

Your soul ever seeking through the forest depths

Searching for her love

Searching for her soul

You know that she’s out there.

She knows that you exist as she sits quietly upon a grassy hill

To watch you paint the sunrise just for her.

And all that she wants is for you to sit beside her,

Wrap your arms around her,

And let the stars go dull.

Version 2 – But is this not the reality too?

Can it be that you polish the stars just for her?

Is that you who dances on the moon every Saturday night?

And every day, is it such that you carry the sun

Across the sky upon your back just for her?

Oh, blue eyes of heaven, how you do look into her eyes with fascination,

And is it such that you spin this world round just for her?

And now she, she had just taken you very beating, throbbing heart,

Into her delicate hands,

Dropped it,

Stomped all over it,

With a little glee,

And walked away with your heart on the bottom of her feet.

And tomorrow you’ll be up early to paint the sky with vivid colors

Of the sunrise, so that the green eyed girl with your heart on the soles of her feet,

Can see the beauty of it all

Could it be love?

And just for fun, a poem I wrote about one of my biggest fears, what it feels like to live alone and fear an intruder in the middle of the night.

I think there is a dead guy somewhere in my home,

He’s hiding in my closet, wearing my good clothes,

He sitting on my bed and writing out his grocery list,

He’s in the spare bedroom staring out the window, watching it snow,

He’s behind me in the kitchen as I’m cooking my dinner,

He’s in the bathroom combing his hair as I’m brushing my teeth,

But I live by myself,

And as each night I do the dead bolt to keep the strangers out, 

I feel his hand upon my shoulder,

As I shudder with a fright.

As I crawl into bed, he stands at my door….

I think there is a dead guy somewhere in my home.

This I fear, 

Good night.