I wrote a poem when I died...
Another at my birth.
A brand-new sonnet when I cried.
And again when there was mirth.

A song for my confession...
A story for my pain...
A painting for depression...
And nursery rhymes for rain.

My creations live inside my heart.
I keep them there in shame.
Yet you looked around and saw my art,
And smiled all the same.

I walked a mile in Mother’s shoes,
Before turning around.
I realized everything I’d done,
And crumpled to the ground.

For all my tears she wiped away,
She cried a hundred more.
I heard her praying late one night,
For all God had in store.

I lived a life of pleasure.
She lived a life of pain.
She always wore a smile,
Though for all she lost I gained.

And although I’m still changing,
And growing everyday,
Her simple midnight whispers,
Have always stayed the same.

I was a chef when I was little
Best in the world.
The mud-pies I made for my imaginary friends
Always had the perfect consistency
And sometimes I would take
Little piles of worm dirt
I found on the ground
And use them as sprinkles...

But only on special occasions.

As I got older
My friends went away
And I can't recall whether
They left of their own free will
Or if I pushed them away
But they were gone regardless...

So I stopped making mud-pies.

I eat the food I make now
And I don't think
I'm that great of a chef anymore
But I like to think
My imaginary friends still do.

Goodnight to the child who seems wide awake.
Rock-a-bye baby who’s lost in the waves.
Sleep tight to the girl who can feel the ground shake.
Listen well to the song you will take to your graves.

Let the half-moon embrace you in silvery light,
While invisible winds dry your tears.
Let your souls shine in heaven and brighten the night,
And the stars melt away all your fears.

Farewell, little ones, now we bid you adieu,
‘Till we meet on the road to the sky,
And the wings we have damaged are finally made new.
But for now we must tell you goodbye.

Words have always come to me,
As easy as the air I breathe,
And now they turn their heads and flee,
So I can't write my poetry.

Don't ask me to write pretty words,
They're gone as far as I'm concerned,
They've flown away like little birds,
And now there's nothing to be heard.

I've used up every single rhyme,
A new hobby would be sublime,
I'm sick of always keeping time,
Like breaking it would be a crime.

But even when I try to write,
It seems my flowing thoughts are tight,
The silence gives me quite a fright,
Like darkness in the dead of night.

It's time to say goodbye to day,
So it's good the words have gone away,
I didn't want them anyway.
It's good they didn't want to stay.

Those words have never done me good,
Or gave me solace like they should,
I wonder if they ever could.
Perhaps I have misunderstood.

But anyway the point is made.
I can't keep up with this facade.
The race is done, the game is played,
And now my poems have to fade.

So now my life is up to fate,
To leave you this is what I hate,
And one last poem would be great.
To say goodbye and then- oh wait...

Have I been rhyming all along?
Did I really write another song?
I thought my words had said "so long,"
Now they've come back to prove me wrong.

I look at you, but you aren't there,
And I breathe a sigh of sadness.
If I look away I'll face my fear,
And succumb to a world of madness.

I reach for you, but you don't reach back,
And water wets my face.
I think of everything I lack,
In the game of the Human Race.

You didn't know what would happen that day.
What you reaped you did not sew.
I look at you and all I say;
"Why did you have to go?"

Every night I’m lulled to sleep,
By the dripping of heavy dew,
By crickets as they play their song,
By the Owl asking, “Who?”

But just before I fall asleep,
I hear a *****’s Scream.
The foxes are mischievous,
As they prance beside the stream.

A moth is fluttering on the glass,
She’s enchanted by the light,
Of the little lamp beside the bed,
To keep away the Night.

And once the light is gone again,
And everything is still,
The cicadas sing a special song.
I’m delighted by their trill.

And when I can’t resist it,
When my time to sleep grows nigh,
I close my eyes and listen,
To a Southern Lullaby.

Please.
Please don't...
Just talk to me.

Okay?

I know, I know.
I can see.
You're not sure where to start.
All of those thoughts.
Running, racing through your head.
All at once.

Breathe.

I can see you reliving every moment
Every second
Every scenario that led you

Here.

Just focus on here.
Focus on me.
No, don't look away.
Eyes on me.

Breathe.

I know sometimes it seems
Like the world is caving in
Crushing you under its weight.
You carry it.
You've made it look easy.
Until now.

Let me carry it for a while.
Let me help you carry it
At least.
You still don't know where to start.
Those thoughts of yours
Still racing, flying, tangled
Crashing into each other.

Fighting.

Listen for a second.
Don't try and sort them
In order of importance.
It doesn't work like that.
Start with...

Which thought is loudest?

There are drums in the distant gray sky,
And they drum to the beat of the wind,
And my heart follows closely in time,
To the sound bringing chills to my skin.

And the hooves of the deer echo back,
As they’re racing across the long field,
With the lightning the sky seems to crack,
From the bolt that great Jupiter wields.

And the storm brings destruction in rain,
And the oak trees bend down to the floor,
And the ones who do not bow in pain,
Are the ones who are surely no more.

At break of day our eyes will close.
We pray that soon the sun will go,
To hide behind a moon that glows.
We pray that soon the falling snow,
Will conceal the ground below,
Which opens up and swallows us whole.
We will not be forgotten, though.

Our stories are read by those who are late,
And they will know of our mistakes,
And be smart enough to slam on brakes,
For finally they know the stakes,
And refuse to follow in the fate,
Of a world consumed by floods of hate,
Where all we know disintegrates.

And all that's left is Dust.

Tomorrow's sun brings icy wind
And hearts entwined are torn again
The wings of angels bleed and break
Reflections dance on mirror lake.

The stars are falling one by one
Darkness consumes until it's done
And fragrant flowers bow their head
The dancers' feet are made of lead.

And cities crumble brick by brick
And flame ignites the candle's wick
As icy wind begins to blow
The dancers' feet begin to slow.

Tomorrow's wind brings burning rain
All living creatures shall be slain
And after rain comes deathly chill
The dancers' feet, at last, are still.

I sometimes sit alone at night,
All huddled up and out of sight,
And listen to the whippoorwill;
She welcomes darkness with her trill.

Her feathers bear no colored spot,
A peacock’s beauty, she has not,
But still, she perches calm and proud,
As she sings her name aloud.

She doesn’t know that she is plain,
And continues singing her refrain,
I smile, knowing all along;
Her beauty rests within her song.

If emotion changed the weather,
There would be a little shower.
Speckled sun would light the rain,
That rests on every flower.

But yesterday would have brought storms,
Who’s thunder echoed loud,
And lightning in the darkest night,
Exposed the angry clouds.

The day before was overcast,
Without much more to tell.
Days like those are common,
And I know them very well.

Tomorrow might bring summer sun,
Or winds that pull up trees,
Or autumn’s firey colors,
Or winter’s ruthless freeze.

Today though, there are rainbows,
And drops that seem to glow.
The birds are singing special songs,
From many years ago.

I am no stranger to other worlds,
I travel them day after day.
Adventure and fanciful stories unfurl,
And always they are as I say.

My head harbors mountains and skies that aren’t blue,
And armies of fairies and elves,
And people and places too good to be true,
And things that I don’t dare to tell.

The world that I live in has beauty indeed,
But anger and sadness abound,
And stories of youth have planted the seed,
For my own precious world to be found.

I have often considered letting go of that place,
To get my head out of the clouds,
It is true I’m no child, and I’m not fair of face,
Just one silly girl in a crowd.

But the more I forget, the more I create,
And the more I become someone more,
And the world that I live in is seeing a change,
From the person I have been before.

How ever did it happen,
That I never fell in love,
When eyes like yours could rival oceans blue and skies above?

How ever did I manage,
Not to run into your arms,
When every broken smile you gave was laced with all your charms?

How ever did I wave goodbye,
When our paths began to part,
And I was left alone with just the pounding of my heart?

How ever was I happy,
When you were no longer there,
And I found peace and joy within the stillness of the air?

And when did it occur to me,
That none of it is true,
But every road I travel down just leads me back to you?

I pray that someday peace will be the goal of our nation.
I pray that freedom will be true.
I pray that kindness and compassion will be instinctual.
I pray that hearts may be changed by the truth.
I pray for a country that stands by its foundations.
I pray that it does not bend to the will of a people who would see it break.
I pray for a country whose leaders will lead and not be led.
I pray for a day when people will smile at each other on the street.
I pray for casual conversation on the subway.
I pray for the future I thought I would have.
I pray for the future of generations to come.

You remind me of the wind,
That settles in the early hour of morning.
I cherish every breeze which cools my skin.

A swing,
Coated in charcoal gloss,
Swaying in the gentle afternoon breeze,
Seems more than I deserve.

For, though surrounded by a scene of peace,
And the epitome of serenity,
Chaos ensues.

Though the sky is speckled with tufts of cotton,
Dark storms rage on.

Eyes once bright and shining,
Now dull and cloudy.
Through ivory,
Dark, tired purple appears.

A mind,
Surrounded by smiling faces,
And sunny days,
And full hearts,
And glad tidings,
Is tired.

It can see nothing but gray.

The world outside is calm and still,
But inside there is chaos.
The wind awakens raging seas,
Where many lives are lost.

And yet the sun is shining bright,
Though no warmth reaches through.
It stretches through the empty eye,
And lights the angry blue.

But eyes do not stay open long.
They close when light is gone,
And even with approach of dawn,
The storm is raging on.

Tonight I will travel to worlds unseen,
To oceans deep and forests green.
I will fly with wings I have never owned,
And converse with friends I have never known.

My dream is that of rolling hills,
Which turn to waterfalls.
And once the river is quiet and still,
It then becomes a hall.

The hall has arches tall and wide,
And at the end, a King.
He reaches me with two great strides,
And beckons me to sing.

And then I saw the people there,
Who did not have a choice.
The musicians played with utmost care,
Yet, I couldn’t find my voice.

It was then I was imprisoned,
In a dungeon cold and dark.
And soon I was positioned,
So that the ax could hit its mark.

But then dungeon turned cathedral,
And I smiled at the priest,
When the tolling bells began to call,
The children to the feast.

Then I was alone again,
Amongst the rolling hills.
I heard the voices on the wind,
Which suddenly went still.

And then the hill was soaked in red,
The ax had found its sheath.
My soul and mind were filled with dread,
And I drifted off to sleep.