Yard Yard

She reads what I write

When alone at night

And frankly I find myself flattered.

In truth I always expected

My poems to be rejected,

For why should my words have mattered?

Yardie is smart and attractive

But the chemistry is inactive

And I am not of the social standing she prefers.

And we have no history,

Which deepens the mystery

Of why the fuck she keeps reading my words?

We met once in the flesh,

When my mind was a mess

Still, I asked what about my writing she enjoyed?

She told me that my art

Spoke straight to her heart

And the interesting way my words were employed.

My efforts may be valiant

And I admit I have talent.

Yard Yard explained my writing better than I could.

We then talked a bit more,

As I walked her to the door,

I learned I was important to someone, which felt good.

I realized right then,

Among all other men,

For people like Yardie I supplied something so very rare:

That through my poetry

They could always see

That I knew of their secret worlds of The Pain and did care.

I'll die, no one to mourn,

No progeny to be born;

Those thoughts plague me while above a dark spirit looms.

So, with life cruel and hard,

I think of those like Yard Yard

And I see that at my words will be survive past my tomb.