To Prom?

Just a few weeks ago, I hardly knew
The wonderful person that is you.
It's strange that the beautiful fruit
Is hidden by the tree, colors made mute
Behind veils of green and thin stems.
I regret not having seen you behind them.

So it is to this end that I propose
Through my rhyming words; poetry, not prose.
I've finally asked for money, permission,
Now I must take the final step of my mission:
The question I ask you, Stephanie...
Would you like to go to Prom with me?

The poet in me is dying

The poet in me is dying
Which I find quite disturbing to say
Who needs the crazy old imagist inside of me anyway?

Though these words are rhyming
And the rhyhtms are not well-set (as they always are)
I find myself writing about nothing incredible (instead about topics sub-par)

Such as how I cannot find inspiration
In the most menial of tasks, nor in the flower
Who is swaying gently in the grasses all the day, every hour.

As the trees move in the wind
Their seeds swim in the breeze and shake.
They all eventually fall loose so that they may procreate.

So is the poet in me, swaying in emotion
Tied up, steadfast, in the mind of a rationalist.
Dying desperately to escape and inspiring me to write this.

On Dying

One of the great paradoxes of life
Is that man is not living, but dying.

From the moment he is born,
It is a constant struggle against
Forces of great opposition
To live. In living, you are dying.

For how could there be life
Without death?

However, most feel death to be
A definite moment.
When the heart stops its movements.
When the brain becomes insulated and sparks no longer fly though it.

Save for those rude deaths instantly caused
By man or nature which take lives instantly,
I disagree.

Man is dying, not living.
From the moment he is born,
He is fighting a losing game.
His senses dull he wages a war against his environment.

The things he can once see, hear, touch, smell, feel slowly
Start to lessen after years of nonstop fighting
Until the man himself loses the will
To prolong his destruction
And waves a white flag
Giving himself up
While the others
Still choose
To die
Living is easy.
Any creature can live
Without ever experiencing mortality.
How will you die?