Robert Smith Poems

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
...