Saint Cynosure Poems

I know not of a poet mute,
unless he's without hands.
And a poet without dreams,
is just another man.
...

We breath by seconds,
move by minutes,
and live our lives by hours.
We count our days in squares of paper,
...

She built me up,
than broke me down,
to a poet without words.
The sentence for the man of death,
...

Your beauty is what holds my eye,
so hard to look away.
I am caught by the surprise,
of nothing more to say.
...

I am sunken in the heart,
I am torn away.
I am needing a new start,
I am lessening by day.
...

Once again its me and pen,
we've been here before.
To pass a test to do our best,
to leave you wanting more.
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Poets try to give belief,
in every sorrowful word that you read.
Open up wholly,
spit out their words.
...

A nything
B ad
C ertainly
D ies
...

Welcome to my torture room,
my painful den of sorrows.
Although today you are alive,
I can promise no tomorrow.
...

Poems of rain, wind and sea,
written of things beyond belief.
Poems of sadness, strife and pain,
written of feelings inside all men.
...