META: I'll post some poems I've found. I wanted to write poetry at some point but have said my farewell to it recently. 

<- return to the ground

I like fiction (although does this really matter? isn't the literary author dead?) I like fiction he said The lives of nonexistent he read No dearth of coin, liquor and talk Yet drawn to authors long dead Books for when he was bored The existent starving he ignored No dearth of anguish on his street Yet Kafka's misery he adored Hardcovers for a fine collection Cardboard with meaning and reflection No dearth of stories lost outside in flesh Yet protagonists made an exquisite selection I like fiction he said And only fiction not reality he pled No dearth of coin, liquor and talk The street's ugliness must be adorned and read
All Watched Over By Machines Of Loving Grace Richard Brautigan I like to think (and the sooner the better!) of a cybernetic meadow where mammals and computers live together in mutually programming harmony like pure water touching clear sky. I like to think (right now, please!) of a cybernetic forest filled with pines and electronics where deer stroll peacefully past computers as if they were flowers with spinning blossoms. I like to think (it has to be!) of a cybernetic ecology where we are free of our labors and joined back to nature, returned to our mammal brothers and sisters, and all watched over by machines of loving grace.
Tonight by Agha Shahid Ali     “Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar”                 —Laurence Hope Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell tonight? Whom else from rapture’s road will you expel tonight? Those “Fabrics of Cashmere—” “to make Me beautiful—” “Trinket”—to gem—“Me to adorn—How tell”—tonight? I beg for haven: Prisons, let open your gates— A refugee from Belief seeks a cell tonight. God’s vintage loneliness has turned to vinegar— All the archangels—their wings frozen—fell tonight. Lord, cried out the idols, Don’t let us be broken; Only we can convert the infidel tonight. Mughal ceilings, let your mirrored convexities multiply me at once under your spell tonight. He’s freed some fire from ice in pity for Heaven. He’s left open—for God—the doors of Hell tonight. In the heart’s veined temple, all statues have been smashed. No priest in saffron’s left to toll its knell tonight. God, limit these punishments, there’s still Judgment Day— I’m a mere sinner, I’m no infidel tonight. Executioners near the woman at the window. Damn you, Elijah, I’ll bless Jezebel tonight. The hunt is over, and I hear the Call to Prayer fade into that of the wounded gazelle tonight. My rivals for your love—you’ve invited them all? This is mere insult, this is no farewell tonight. And I, Shahid, only am escaped to tell thee— God sobs in my arms. Call me Ishmael tonight.
When You Are Old Wiliam Butler Yeats When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.