The Book of T.J.

To explain the joy of love,
A poets words have tried
But in their ignorance, incomplete,
With the fold still over their eyes.

Defined when when love is new,
There are no moments too great.
Everything through the rose color,
No feelings of sad, lonely or hate.

Each moment builds upon the next,
Adding to the colored blur.
Love is the absence of all emotion,
That does not revolve around her.

But this belief, believed by most,
Is nothing more than a bad trend.
It's an emotion few have felt,
And even less can comprehend.

Love is not only the good,
The joy and smile in blend,
But the collection of all emotion,
That will last forever in a friend.

Music and laughter in the distance
Hidden by a cloud of smoke.
Focused on the que-ball,
As you set up for your shot.
Your fingers grip the nylon,
As the stick takes rest on a familiar finger.
Back and forth, just two or three times,
As you say "8-ball, corner pocket."
You push the stick,
As if pushing through the ball.
It rolls slowly across the felt,
You have time to blink,
But only once.
As your eyes open,
Your target is hit,
With perfect accuracy.
Black sphere falls,
Slight popping noise echoes.
Joy wells within you,
As you take the time to exhale.
Pop,
Your que-ball follows it in.
You take another drag of your smoke,
And rack for another game.