When Asked About My Life's Purpose
With dung-colored lenses, I view a world
Where the roses are not pretty at all
The stems that hold their heads twisted and twirled
Their partly blemished petals soon to fall
With downcast eyes, I roam the neighborhood
Where no one wants to help or be my friend
From far away, they sense my wretched mood
An ear to hear me rant, they would not lend
Alone, I get a pen and write my thoughts
How dark they are, the paper does not mind
Like my delusions, they come out in bouts
The words don't have to be happy or kind
For a few years, I've been making verses
My poems–they’ve become my life's purpose
A Facebook Sonnet
Seldom do I with cyber friends engage
Though I for hours on social media spend
Concerned about one's work more than his age
A simple birthday wish, I'd never send
Neither would I thank him copiously
With comments longer than the poem itself
Who's published a haiku written by me
Nor purchase his book to put on my shelf
Even in times I do participate
I oft cannot tell when one's post is grim
Choosing emoji inappropriate
With him I laugh, but no, never at him
Though oblivious to things people share
When something dire catches my eye, I care
The Little Book of Questions
Should I let "what ifs" fill my head
What year of my past I'd relive
Who would I bring back from the dead
To what charity would I give
Imagine if I could change a law
Which innocents would I set free
Or unsee something that I saw
How different my days would be
What if I were to choose one food
To eat for the rest of my life
Maybe not all questions are good
Some causing emotional strife
Instead of using them to think
Let me ponder with my own ink
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