Here's a really old poem. It's one of the few I still like. Seems like I've always been obsessed with Dylan Thomas.
There are no violins on the moon;
and no nightingales.
The purpose of innocence
remains to be discovered
in the splintered remnants of peanut-butter memories.
So, take my hand while there's still time.
We can't compete with mediocrity.
the wounded secret provides an anticlimax
for some celestial drama.
And the sandman is waiting under the marquee;
but that isn't my name in lights.
I saw a cloud move like this once,
like a stream of my thoughts.
I hurry to catch up with you.
You tell me I write nothing like Dylan Thomas.
Unknowingly, you've stuck a grudge
somewhere between my shoulders,
and white things seep into my line of vision.
I wish I had your purpleness back
because you're listening to me now,
and I wish I had more to say.
Well, Dylan Thomas could never write like me.