I can stare for days,
at the seagull,
sitting on my window sill.

You can tell from his expression,
he has no idea that people shoot at each other.

I’m going to spend the rest of my life with him,
until I have the same expression on my face…

Our lives are stories
Their hundreds of pages painted with words
Their simply books filled with a millennia of chapters

Chapters...
That word almost sounds foreign to me
Well at least I want it too

People tell me my story has just begun
But I want it to be the end
They say it's only the first chapter
If that's the case I want it to be the only chapter
And I want this chapter to shorten
It's simply too long

You refuse
To not tell me
To not fight

You continue
To tell me
To fight

To fight
A life
To fight for
my life
Yet
I simply
Don't want to

You expect me
To soar into
This war
With wings
Of an eagle

But to soar like a eagle, you have to have bigger wings

You refuse
To not tell me
To not fight

You continue
To tell me
To fight

To fight
A life
To fight for
my life
Yet
I simply
Don't want to

You expect me
To ride into
This war
Like lightening

*But if you ride like lightning, you'll crash like thunder

I wish this poem was my life
Poems never die
When you write it
It eventually ends
But you can always reread it
Because it'll always be there

I wish this poem was my life
Poems never die
It's a page filled with words
And once words are said
You can't take them back
They don't die

I wish this poem was my life
Poems never die
It's like a tree
The roots are stuck in the ground
And branches spread out and wrap around us
Keeping us warm with a blanket of leaves

Oh that sweet warmth
Oh it's simply just so wonderful
There's no bitterness at all
It's simply a perfect warmth everyone desires

This poem is kind
This poem is gentle
This poem is warm

My like is cruel
My life is painful
My life is cold

I wish this poem was my life
**Poems never die

An old woman that I've only
Spoken to once or twice
Introduced me to and old man
She told him my name
And then said I was... unusual
She did not say it rudely
And I'm most defiantly positive that
She meant no harm to her opinion of me
But I can't help but wonder why?..
I don't understand
I've been called many things
And I consider myself many things
But unusual..?
Being called that almost sounds foreign to me
I just simply don't understand why I'd be called that?
Maybe I don't know myself as much as I thought...
Or maybe I'm just over thinking
But still I must ask what would make someone think I'm unusual?

The beauty of a woman
is in the poems she's wrote,
the dreams she's weaved
and all the stories she's told.

The beauty of a woman
is in the adventures she's taken,
the lives she's touched
and all the minds she's awakened.

The beauty of a woman
is in the caring she gives,
the sincerity in her laughter,
and the passion in her griefs.

It's not the expensive clothes she owns,
her body size, the diamonds she's worn.
Measure not the beauty of woman in gold,
for the beauty of a woman is reflected in her soul.