I was kiddun'. I really liked it! Very zen-ish.

The lips that you find
With no teeth behind
Though mute, are unkind
When they prey on your mind

No Need for a Title

I look once more
Back to the Cellar's door
But still I can't find
A poem that doesn't rhyme
Like mine

It doesn't have to rhyme!
Couplets are predictable and benign

New age expression
Are far more poetic to me
But well who am I to judge
I major in leisure studies

(i know there are other non couplets other than mine posted, just generalizing oops :( )

Hark! Tis not true that
only free verse carries the mystic artistry
you seek.
As I listen to the summer staccato of rain
I find pretention.

He bought some liquid paper.

I'm so ashamed
of my short attention span

I have short attention spam

oh and a lisp

Here I sit
One night more
My bed unmade
My eyes are sore

What a bore
my life is dull
I need something
to sooth my skull

In this weather
Your head is probably
killing you.
Here in my separate world
I can feel the muscles
bunching up at the base of your neck
and I would call you but you're probably
doing something
important.

Tonight I will
trace the patterns of
stress and stormclouds
across your wide back.

are you coming home?
it's late and im all alone
are you coming home?
you have sins to atone

i have to work late again
don't. just leave now
i have to work late again
don't. come home now

I really really really want to.
I really do.
really.

Once upon a look at the sky...
And a chat with the moon
And a chill of the night
And a tear of the loneliest heart...
A voice became clear to me
So fine it almost melted
Upon the heat of my trepidation
So lovely I almost went blind
In a flash of white light
Like shock upon my skin
Like madness in a storm
Like cream floating to the top of my tea
You appeared.

Spontaneous
 

This is a spontaneous poem.

We develop patterns,
doing things because we do those things,
thinking things because we think those things.

It's hard not to say the things we've said before.
It's Wednesday, so let's eat Prince spaghetti.

We're just being who we are.
It takes too much creativity to be someone else.

It takes too much energy to be spontaneous.
This is not a spontaneous poem.

Through oxidation
or fermentation
A pile of sawdust bursts into flame

also

Mary is gone and all that remains
is a charred ashen outline,
a shrunken skull,
and a portion of her left foot

there was once a man from Nantucket...

The world's oldest man has died
Long live the world's oldest man