Charlz dela Cruz

Every night, Mr. Goldfish would cross the sea And sing a song to Ms. Monkey.  He would stay on the shore, and she would listen from her tree.  He sang to her only the sweetest songs, and she spoke to him using poetry.  Although they never understood each other, Their romance lasted for a year or three:
When Mr. Goldfish finally decided to marry his Monkey, She missed her Goldfish and swam across the sea.

To the red-haired woman who lives in the forest of the wild. The trees touch you with their dreams...

She wears not silver Nor shimmering jewels, Nor any fine ornaments, But a flower on her hair, Yet she is more than enough Even without it.  The sun is in her eyes; The moon is breathing on her skin;  When she speaks, the lion sighs.
What beauty does this woman hold?
I once made a garland of roses For her head, and they turned gold.  What pure radiance is she made, what art? O, Queen of my heart.

Crow hated the sight of all the flowers Until a red Rose bloomed in the garden.  Crow would lure this Rose with all his powers: “Let’s fly to the moon and back here again.” But the Rose did not have ears to hear him.  Crow did not know this, and he persisted.  Days passed, Crow was tired, and the stars were dim.  Crow flew beside Rose, sang, cried, and rested.  It was the first time that she noticed Crow.  “He looks sad,” she thought, but she could not speak.  They slept until the sun started to glow.  Crow kissed Rose and flew. She blushed and was lovesick.
But sad Crow died of heartbreak that bright day,
While Rose waited ‘til her petals turned gray.

Dear Mr. Keats and Company, 
I do not need to be careful with how I craft this verse anymore,  for it is the modern time. Everything is now  a poem.  As long as I format the writing 
like this,  then it should be fine.  I just want to tell you that they have prostituted
and mercilessly killed poetry 
with their quick scribbles with line breaks.  They are wildly celebrating this idolatry.  I have also received a letter saying  that Mr. Edgar Allan Poe is now very mad in hell, throwing chairs and breaking things.  Apparently, he has read too much “modern poetry”. And about your poems, good sir, I’m sorry to say, but we can forget about them now.  The same goes for Mr. Shakespeare, Byron, Wordsworth,
Whitman, and all your friends.  When the people read your works,  they could not understand a line.  Their heart is no longer ready for poetry,
for poetry is the mirror of the soul. But, do not worry, they can understand this quick

They warned him that she was mad.  He did not believe them... until she took his heart and started to write poems with his blood. “Do not worry,” she said, “for every poem is stained with a kiss.” She wrote a hundred more. It was a fantasy that was never meant for any human.  But he did not want to let go... until she evoked ghosts and ancient spirits  to hold him tight.  “Do not move,” she whispered.  “I also want to write poems inside your body. If you move, it might hurt more.” She stabbed her golden quill into his skin and wrote until midnight, until there was  no more space in him for another poem.  Tired yet smiling, she asked, “Do you like it?” “Whatever makes you happy,” he groaned,  not knowing if he was dead or alive.  “But, please tell me, do you also love me?” he asked.  She looked at him, her glassy eyes pure and innocent, “I only write because of you, my love. You make me a poet.” Then she kissed him, and at once he knew that their love was true.  She showed him his heart  sweetly beating in her h…

The world was a playground for fools like him Until she came, lily-like in the wind. He had to stop, he had to pause and look: She was a force of nature, A beauty of a fairytale in a book.  And all that he thought was best in the world Began to crumble at her feet.  He stared at her, quietly melting, As she walked past him
Unaware she was glowing.

Narcissism is a disease that is very common,
especially among writers.

I know someone
who writes so much
that she has fallen in love
with herself.
She writes and listens
only to herself,
and always so full
of herself, overflowing,
that it already swept
her lover
miles and miles away.

She did not
even notice.

Be humble. Always. Many times, those who think of themselves
as the wildflower
are actually
the biggest thorn.
But, do not lose hope.
Be kind. Always.
For even the rose
was once
a thorn.

and suddenly, i realized  that it is the indescribable  sadness that has always been  my muse 
she holds  my hand, and we ride on a magic carpet, out beyond  the stars

She was poetry through and through,
and I was nothing but
a reckless boy
who gave her a blank
page for her poems.
She wrote the sweetest
verses on my heart
only to break it with
the saddest lines.