The Poet

He hands me scraps of notebook paper.

Wih words looming on it,

in a concise manner,

his thoughts chaotic

He grins at me,

looking for an expression.

I try to smile,

but his scars can not be hidden,

and my smile withers form within.

I look down at the chaos,

and observe his cry for help.

His words are beautiful;

they swarm around me all the time.

And engulf me,

and I have a longing to undrstand it.

Today I wrote a letter to him,

appolgizing for not listening,

not understanding his world.

I placed it in his hand,

and kissed him on his cold forehead.

 I left before,

they buried him in a casket,

and let that beautiful poet,

dissapear forever.