James McLain Poems

Am I wicked.
You know I'm why.
Between rich lines,
and purple skies.
...

The poets of the many feelings are of all, each rung,
of life and teach positions.
Though if poets they must some what seem to be.
Will you see the world for what it is, subconsciously.
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When the fire of day my dying sun.
Looks as the flame and night brings purity.
There I lay upon the sand,
he only came to see the ocean by my wave.
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Although my heart dies of fear,
and this knowledge is free from my head.
And are we not at the historic point once again.
Where are the words, when they never come.
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When you decide to depend upon someone,
it is not me, it is not me, but still you ask, I to needed to ask.
Even when your back is completely turned around.
The moon it traces, is it not, why you or why me.
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Love to light and It shows.
I have never written poems designed around buildings,
and to love and life the poem it is everything.
And she to I' about saying, what I love.
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Thinking thoughts beneath so light but firm.
Is more discretely less I've plainly seen.
As faces must reveal each death is purged.
Or miss the tears I've lived to fight the urge.
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I swear I didn't and as for her which thinks of each thing.
Any name will do I called today.
Looking she does not look at my perplexity of the.
Her part is to the left, next to the far right.
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I have opened your letter the mail man has left.
Rereading what you never read.
There is nothing to say, you've not said.
What I never said love was this.
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When your thoughts are of, I have lived.
And the well from the spring came each person.
And the boy and the girl who can not refuse,
As a bubble in time will not forget, dims and dies.
...