Sometimes/
the poet/
doth forget/
meter, verse and rhyme,/
becoming becalmed/
in his song,/
overwhelmed with the sublime./
This is one/
of those silent times.

The longer the wait,/
the more certain I become./
Nothing will happen.

When a life/
hangs in the balance,/
and silence,/
like a knife,/
cuts, U take a chance;/
send flowers, candy,/
verse;/
hope it’s bad technology,/
not something worse.

Some months ago she/
claimed she didn’t have time for/
me. She was correct.

The morning fled to/
midnight. She never returned./
I’m now mid-mourning.

The pity of/
being a morning person, love,/
is when U miss a chance/
4 nocturnal romance./

4 oft when/
darkness descends,/
and stars r uncovered,/
then/
speak lovers.

It is strangely weird/
how you can have a broken/
heart when you’re adored.