Second Chances
           Are
The dandelion seeds
Blowing wildly
In the spring breeze
They fly far
         Far
         Away
And land by
The feet of a young
         Girl
Who steps on them
In other words
They don’t exist for long

I attempt to find comfort
In my fascination with death
I need to know there is a reward
For loving you even after you'd left
I lay my head on a cold tombstone
Caressing it lightly I almost feel warmth
I swear i hear your heart beat in my ears
But its only the cause of me holding my breath

I had coffee at my lips
And good intentions with you

You had passion as fingertips
And a slow withering heart

I'm falling in love with you
Life is setting the punchline

When you look up at night,
do you stare at the stars and whisper my name?
Hoping that somewhere along the way,
the wind will carry your voice to me.
Me, who may quite possibly be gazing at the same set of stars as you.
Throughout your day, when you are all by yourself,
does my name enter your thoughts?
Do the words I shared with you spark any reactions inside you still?
Or have you already forgotten me?
Please, I beg you… forget me not,
forget me not.
For I have not had the heart to forget about you.
You enter my thoughts, and your face is forever etched in my mind and soul.
You still have my heart, and so I ask,
forget me not?
You made me laugh, blush, and smile,
and you made me cry.
Yet, I keep telling myself not to let you go.
In case one day you re-enter my life.
Shall you still have my heart,
I trust you with it--yes, I still have faith in you.
If I’m right,
if you do whisper my name to the constellations,
if my name clouds your brain,
then you have received my one hundred forget-me-nots.
And you’ve given me a reason to laugh, blush, and smile.
All over again.
Although if you have not, then you have given me a reason to hope that one day,
we will see each other again and start over.
Until that day comes, please, I ask you over and over, one hundred times…
forget me not?

I run into the melody.

the crimson sounds hug me.

i ever struck a still place.

it was a singing rose.

Black and white, day and night,
The city suffers, yearning for light
hundreds are dead, it doesn't seem logical,
One has to wonder how is it possible
The powder keg of racial prejudice,
Creates explosions destroying the best of us,
Fortunately, the dawn would end this time of fright,
A world tired of darkness, yearning for light
Hearts capable of evil, and mortal sin,
A new light would form in the hearts of men
The answer is in the goodness of God that weaves all
Yes, indeed, the future is bright, hope has put beauty in myopic sight,
Hope is the power that drives us on, hope is the beauty of the yearning light.

I dipped my pen in Midnight's well,
but still, my quill remained dry.
I chased fallen stars to the Moon's mournful waterfalls,
and still, I had no tears to cry.
I followed the paths carved throughout my soul's forest,
but still, could not find where I'd let my dreams lie.
Finally, I crawled through the gates of every hell and saw
the trail leading to the grave where I'd let myself die.

The silence followed me everywhere I went;
that dreadful nothingness ringing in my ears would not relent.
No words, no words, no words could I invent
to relieve the pain caused by this constant, quiet torment.

I'm nothing. Nothing I dreamed I'd be.
I'm shipwrecked driftwood in this mighty sea,
tossed to and fro without understanding or control.
I've lost too much to ever dream of being whole.

Then, one day, an old artist told me,
"Never cover over your imperfections;
never hide the flaws beneath the perceived perfection,
because the truest beauty lies in being able to see
all the madness and chaos that birthed the masterpiece."

So I won't hide from my shadows anymore;
I won't run from the demons sleeping underneath my pillows.
I will not shrink in the light of the golden Sphinx's baleful eye;
I won't keep myself chained to never-arriving Tomorrow's.

I will face my silence until my ears are bleeding,
and from that blood will I find the words to write,
and from the river of those crimson words flooding,
perhaps I'll find the picture of what my masterpiece will look like.