Here’s a quick and silly poem:
I’m not often given to writing free verse
But what other course can there be
When every semblance of order
Has been evicted from my mind and
Forced, cowering, into the furthest extremities
Of my living shell – these trembling
Fingers that compose this scattered verse.
Reason has become as taboo
As the mention of your name
Ever since you became a staple in my days,
Though how you could ever keep things together
When you have me falling apart as I am – that
Is but one of the mysteries, like
Do you know how much my neck hurts
From looking at your face in side view and
Do you know how my right shoulder envies my left for
Being under the umbrella you held instead of in the rain
And do you ever read my poetry
With my voice imagined in your head?
These are my most honest words,
Which I honestly doubt
I will ever more than whisper.
