Collin, Collin it will never please,
To see you write on such trivialities,
Of love, of love, oh how my heart pounds!
Lighter than helium, will never come down.
To be frank dear sir it is rather ill,
To pursue a subject only little girls will.
Don’t write of love, do it right,
Don’t write at all, have some might!
And be a man if you can –
And if it’s the ladies you desire they’ll flow by the hand.
But softer than a mattress and Hamlet combined,
You’ll find nothing but disappointment in your time.
You see nothing is eternal, no girl truly so good,
To devote an entire sonnet in that flamboyant mood.
Just look around you, love is tragic, it’s true
Deceived by women, Hemingway, Poe, Van Gogh too.
So look not to the written things as they will lead you to despair,
But rather reliable physical action to give you care.

My most humble friend,
I thank you for your concern.
But I really need no saving,
There’s nothing that I yearn,
But to seek simple glints of beauty,
Washed up along the shore.
Not to merely shoot at stars,
And hope to make a score.
I do not lack a rudder,
But have a sail to move about,
One to guide the other,
And no motor with which to clout.
It is not the blotch of paint,
That defines the artist’s work,
But her creative eye to mold,
A little seed into a tree of gold.
Although some may laugh and some may scoff,
And some may simply misunderstand,
I for one could tell you off,
But I’d rather tell you how she holds my hand.