words 1

Poetry is a complicated thing of which I dare not claim to be a part of.

That being said, just like the common butcher, taxi driver, flowerist, nutjob and so on, I like to play poet now and then.

This is a book, of sorts, a book on the works.

Maybe it will be finished one day, so there will be a words 2, also perhaps that day may never come.

Here's my attempt at registering some of my writings as they are being written.

Keep in mind, dear reader, these are not poems.

These are just words.

you are my favourite place in town

you are the warm steam coming out of a morning tea mug

you are the best night's sleep I could possibly have

you are the sun caressing my skin on a gentle summer walk

you are the cat napping in my neighbour's front yard

you are the expected train arriving just in time

you are the window seat that has just been left behind

you are the quiet murmurs of a crowd in slumber

you are the small sleeve holes that exist in my jumper

you are the rhythm my steps like to play on and

my efforts not to let them

you are my most cherished welcome

you are my hardest goodbye

you are my favourite curse

my dearest maze

you are my favourite place in town

two men would be

caged being fed

feces

and one would still

find light in his eye

to inquiry why

his companions has

a meatier texture

than his