I wonder what the birds think
As they fly about
Food, water, predators?
Or maybe not much at all
Maybe they think of nests and trees
Or they think of the kind human
Who sprinkled some seeds by the bench
They may remember bad times too
When they were shoo’d away
Or when rocks were thrown at them
Or maybe they don’t think of much at all
And maybe we don’t have to think of much at all
Like the birds
As they fly about

Love is the last manifestation of satan
She’s a crimson rose, a veil of fragility
A hidden thorn, a well-kept secret
Her sweet floral embrace cultivates a garden untamed
With weeds budding, obstructing her angelic guise
And soon she whispers of corruption
Disguised as an everlasting symbol of affection.
Her enchanting petals blind and burn
And her touches of devotion fill with insatiable need.
As the weeds wrap around her stem
she screams of blessed corruption
Divine tyranny, Hopeless possession

Pride is a wilted flower
You are that wilted flower.
Basking in the sun of infallibility,
Your roots were planted in the garden of ego Which has now led to your demise.
Once filled with the essence of life,
Your petals were choked by your own ambition
As you grew to be too close to the sun.
Your bloom was a symbol of beauty,
Whispering notions of hope and strength
Though now nature has punished your delusions.
And the soil you thought to be self-respect
Has betrayed you
And the sun that once was your fuel
Has scarred you.

Expectations, vessels of hope
The root to your demise.
A mountain which grows with each milestone met
With triumphs- mirages of fulfillment
As the fog clears to unveil heights more expectations
And the weight of others’ aspirations
Overshadowing the joys of past achievements.
And as you ascend, echos of your weakness haunt you
Then only your failures are whispered about
And forgotten will be the trials you passed
As the summit continues to rise.