Beard Full Of Butterflies

if i die today,
will anyone pay,
but a little dismay,
for here i lay.

if i may,
ask you to play,
will you not walk away,
for here i stay.

now that no one cares,
in my flesh he can make tares,
for my life is but despairs,
so here i rest in nightmares.

too late for repairs,
over are the affairs,
my murderor declares.
so now we rest in nigtmares.


Is this love?
dreaming of you.
Every moment and spot,
consious or not,
you in all thought.

Can this be love?
The torment,
the pain.
Glad or not,
with you in thought,
comes down my spine a shivery knot.

Is this feeling true?
The yearning,
the agony.
Can this be bought,
or is my love for you merely saught.

- q2

both poems by me, written MANY years ago, but finally being published. Love and death, two related yet different topics... both poems will apear on a single page, if my entry is even printed. I am only submitting for extra credit in english class.

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