Exhaustion doesn’t/
go away when I read or/
write po’try. Need Sleep!

When she doesn’t write,/
call or show up, I figure /
she’s blowing me off.

When you write hundreds/
of poems about someone, she/
stays stuck in your mind.

Full moon romancing/
and I’m still dancing alone./
Maybe they’ll serve scones.

Who am I? I am/
the Revolution. It starts/
and ends in my brain.

Like my old black lab,/
I found sunbeams on the floor,/
curled up warm, and slept.

The whining poet collection/
is verse of rhyming perfection./
I’ll publish it so/
women may know/
how men feel about rejection.

She talks of him./
She thinks of him./
She dreams of him./
She pines 4 him./
She texts him./
Even at the gym,/
she yearns 4 him./
My chances 4 her? Slim./
I’m not him.

Slow dancing with you/
is like a dream from which I/
don’t want to wake up.

Do U dream,/
when you’re tired and nonserene,/
of rebeling again,/
just so you could b in my arms and then/
drift off 2 peaceful, satisfied sleep/
and slumber deep?