A Bad Poem for Good Times

I finally figured out which want

Is secondary need.

If contentment is elusive,

Then I've got closing speed.

It's efficient transportation

and the best part of my day.

It's called a motorcycle,

and it's my two-wheeled bae.

The Gentle Waking

Dawn usually breaks, but sometimes it heals,

A sunrise I taste even more than I feel.

The new light softly through yonder window breaks

and something inside me that feels years younger wakes.

The first morning in ages that's not just evening's end,

But beginnings of what gentle dawn can portend.

It doesn't even feel like the calm before the storm...

It just feels warm.

Between 'Know' and 'Notice' and 'No'

Little Miss Vlad the Retailer,

Rejected by the fool of fools

Who dated Belle the Impaler?

I suppose over time, a poet learns

This passing disregard for design,

Mental ointment for psychic burns.

Sometimes, the cover hides the words

From those who might check you out,

Or the circling carrion-birds.

I've never seen you, only spotted.

It's not a real rejection if

I just don't know enough to be besotted.

Try, Try Again

You must make a second effort
If only one should fail.
If three efforts end without success,
Then blaze another trail.

Frozen in Time

Take care as time continues

With all the folks you've met.

If relationships don't grow,

The beginning's all you'll get.

If their budding maturation

should, for some reason, stop,

They'll freeze into position,

As ice might in a mop.

I'll say how my folks treat me,

and you'll see what I mean:

They always will be forty

and I'll always be fourteen.

Why I Write, Part x+269: Accidentally On Purpose

Though I wish I were more painstaking,

I imagine how tight it would bind

If it weren't merely a saying

To truly be of a single mind.

I would be thoroughly discontent

Without those thoughts everyone gives

On accident, absent all intent.

Those thoughts are where poetry lives.

The Number-Two Reason (After Lack of Talent) That I Am Not a Famous Author

There's a million emotions I don't really miss.

I can't recall fear, but I still can feel bliss.

When I write, I feel happy. Do I ever feel sad?

I sure do get angry—take the good with the bad.

I never feel stress, and go years 'tween premonitions.

I daresay I'm no expert in human emotions.

My favorite one is probably “motorcycle,”

But the one I feel most would be nothing at all.