It starts with the shards of black glass flying through the air
Wild winds rub the skin raw
The sky came gray, but turned red-orange as the arid land
Welcomed the black sunset as poison in its throat
The land is sick, it seeps into the roots as an obsidian rainstorm
This is the chaos, it rules all
No room for thought can't speak
It whips the life slowly
Turning the mass into smog
Just a whisper of beauty gone
Can't find it, all gone
No remnants left in swirling plague of debris
Can't see
No room to breathe

Yet.

Then comes a breath, smooth, even
The dust is replaced with white light
The beauty returns, calm and quiet
This is Order, what is right
Good comes, draws the venom out of the system
The wind is still, then comes back
As a cool breeze soothing the skin
Returning the nature to the arid land
It will stay this way, Order
Healing, pressing, stilling, controlling
The chaos, which crawls back
An injured panther will not end the fight
Chaos will call back the red winds
And the obsidian rainstorm will return again.

I have a little ceramic mouse.
He's less than an inch long.
One tiny pink ear is gone, his other is chipped.
His toes have been removed as well.
He often stands looking at me
Miniscule hands on his tiny hips
Tail threaded through the triangular hole
His right arm creates.
He ***** his head to the side
Squinting at me
Reprimanding.

My mother's second wedding took place in a butterfly house.
Her gown was lavender
My sister and I walked her down the aisle.
I wonder
If my grandfather
Would have done it.

I keep staring
Tapping
Waiting
Refreshing
Hoping
For someone to like my poem
Or post
Or share.
I look at the vast number of people
Who have viewed other works
Liking
Commenting
And I want them to do the same thing
To my works
But I don't know why. When did
I start caring so much
About what strangers thought?

Now you've done it.
Why do you like stealing things?
First it was my pencil.
Then my notebook.
And then you took both
And wrote me a note
A message
That I remember distinctly said:
"Hey. We should go out. Want to?"
And as I grabbed for my purple ink pen
To write back "Sure,"
I realized
You had stolen my pen as well.

Would you rather
Eat an apple
Or starfuit?

Would you rather
Play a game
Or read a book?

Would you rather
Sleep all day
Or work all night?

Would you rather
Take it as it comes
Or take it whether it comes or not?

Would you rather
Never be happy
Or be sad all the time?

Would you rather
Leave the past behind
Or bring it back?

Would you rather
Re-write your bad choices
Or run away from them?

Would you rather
Mark your own path
Or be led down the right one?

Would you rather
Love, and lose
Or never love at all?

Would you rather
Hold hands with me
Or someone else?

Your choice.

It takes a shower of rain
Just on the warm side of frigid
Coming straight down on a cloudy day
To wake me up from the delirious dreams that
I often find lurking in the indulgent part of my mind.

It is in the quiet hours of the night
When I consciously choose to cry
For memories lost
Experiences gained
Another's love
Another's pain
And it escapes my mind
The reason I do not cry for myself
For the space under the bed next to the wall
Where all the sad thoughts go
But if I chose a reason, it would be
That I choose to be strong
For others
And myself

I can't imagine many things better
Than pouring clear notes into the silver air
As if no one was there to hear you sing