Robert Smith

I stole this poem, yes I did
It isn't mine to publish
But every word I write myself
On paper reads like rubbish.
...

o widow! what is it you mourn?
is it the man? or labor borne?
the loss of love? or yea the past?
perhaps that beauty cannot last?
...

i walked a mile in her shoes
(but where they led i'll nary tell)
for not the same i'll ever be
(alas they hurt my feet as well!)
...

her pen met the paper
a dot, jot, a tittle
a letter a word
then a phrase then a verse
...

can i tell you a secret?
i'm not supposed to tell
a secret all about you
that pertains to me as well
...

This old man named Balco
He lived down the stair
With old fashioned trousers
And thinning white hair
...

silent stoic
strong as can be
why would he need
a friend like me?
...

when i lay me down to sleep
i see her face appear and then
within the dream i ask implore and beg her
please don't come again
...

there's a place in my heart only you know
where no one else will ever go.
that no one else could ever find.
an attic deep within my mind
...

who are you
without a name
without a face
without a voice
...

they say a song cannot be true
without an ear to hear

therefore courage cannot stand
...

through the sultry night
i begged for a puff of breeze
or one drop of rain
...

rules the follow not
is do can you thing best the
poetry write to
...

rich morning coffee
poured by her delicate hands
awakens my soul
...

a rose in still water
bathed crystalline crimson
soft as a dream
in a tomb of despair
...

clear your mind and i will find you
softly whisper i'm behind you
just relax and i will bind you
i'll invert you
...

my truest love she is not mine
waits no more on a lover's key
broke moorings, rails, and shattered chains
her ghost ship sails an endless sea
...

the demon of Fear
is the cousin of Shame
cohorts with Cowardice,
searching for Blame
...

Follow your dreams
into unbridled passion
grinding of life wears on body and tooth
...

i die today
i know i will
what's said can never be unheard
...