Go Knock on the door of a locked house
And denial is all you will find
There’s a chain on the latch, and it’s rusty
Though the age, you yet cannot divine
Now Perhaps there’s a window that’s opened
And through which you may clamber within
But the blinds are all drawn and the shades shut
Though you swear you can hear a faint din
And Maybe there’s a key that is hidden
In a rock made of plaster and paint
But the garden is overgrown greatly
With flowers of sinners and saints
Save The times that you’ve spent in your searching—
Leave them promptly, as well as the stair
For you’ll pry and you’ll beat and you’ll plead, “please”
All in vain, when there’s not a soul cares
Love The tiles, the roof, and the mortar
But admire them all far, alone
Oh, there’s nothing more cruel to a heart than
To just knock at a dead-lockéd home.
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Notes&Sketches 
Hey, this stuff isn’t bad.
Good picture, Trevor–didn’t know you could pull off a tux so well. The Poem. Well. It has an impressive weight, though an overly complicated demeanor. I think your talent could really soar in a simpler, free-verse form. Take this poem and pound it around for a while. No one with any talent gets out alive without serious editing; if i didn’t think you had the stuff, I’d be saying “Wow. Keep writing!”