How do we prove that 1 + 1 makes 2?
We don't, we just accept it. But why?
Because our teachers told us so,
and on, and on, and on, and on,
Since you went home, days turned to weeks
and weeks to months, and I'm still crying, at the sight,
the touch, the smell of things that once were yours,
and feeling lonely, even when surrounded
While driving home late nights,
in heavy traffic, moving fast,
on narrow country highways,
I tell myself you are still there,
It has been said, a man can love a thousand women,
all in the same old way that one-day butterflies
love flowers, because there are so many,
that touching only one in their short life
Lord of the universe, You let us probe
the fearsome voids of outer space,
the hellish fires that in volcanoes rage,
the cold, dark secrets of the deepest seas,
Will there be flowers to greet them?
What shall we do with this peace?
The one we so devoutly pray for,
young men and women die for,
For years, I lived a lonely life
in an imaginary underworld
Why should I ever want
my poems to convey
their messages in clear
and unmistakable terms,