When destined to fight the Dragon

wisdom leads us to its layer, Before;

Before it can reach our home.

you always said your favorite color was blue
Like the sky crashing into an ocean at midnight
your room, it was painted blue like easter eggs we used to make and then end up throwing them at each other
the walls that you put up around you, I liked to think of them as blue
but not like the sky crashing into the ocean or the easter eggs
your walls I liked to think of them as a shade of blue that was so dark it was almost black
my favorite color was always black, go figure, our friends they would call us
black and blue
like the bruises I would get when you were drunk and it was late and you couldn't control yourself
you would always apologize with brownies, a lopsided smile, and a white letter laced with the early horizon blue

that was always my favorite shade of blue

when you had left me you had left me a card that was black laced with blue and it said that you couldn't stand to hurt me any longer
I understand why you did it but what you don't know is that I am still black and blue it's just on the inside now and after everything, what you don't know is that I would've preferred your version of black and blue
because in the morning I would get brownies, your lopsided smile, and a card with my favorite shade of blue
and now my mornings are filled with bitter disappointment, ashes of my gray heart, and and cards that are only black in the back of my mind

I like to think blue is still your favorite color and that wherever you are you know that black is still mine

she was a poet,
and he was her pen.
in him,
she always found words to write,
songs to sing,
thoughts to think.

he'd smile,
and kiss her softly,
and say,
"write me a poem."

and she would.
she'd put poe,
and whitman,
and shakespeare to shame,
and she'd write a poem that made his eyes water.

she'd compare him
to a rose with no thorns,
a book with no end,
a world with no poverty --
the things we all wish for,
but can never attain.

//

he asked her one day,
"what am i?"
and so she picked up her pen,
and began the usual:
you are the shining sun after a hurricane,
with rays that open the eyes of the blind.
but he stopped her after those two lines,
and said that this time,
he didn't want any metaphors,
or similes,
or analogies.
he wanted the truth.

and so on that night,
as he slept,
the poet picked up her pen,
and she wrote.

she wrote,
then thought better of it,
then started over again,
and this cycle continued well into the early hours of the morning,
until suddenly,
she wrote, frantic,
if i can't love you for what you really are,
have i ever really loved you at all?

this, too,
she thought better of,
condemning it to the trash.

the next morning the poet was gone,
her final work a mere two words:

i'm sorry.

(a.m.)

you don't have to be like someone you aren't,
you just gotto to do you,
and be who you are.
just to be a bit better everyday,
then you actually are.
the world needs good, my friend.
the world needs you.

it has happens to everyone,
it isn't something so mournful,
it isn't so tough,

i be okay until, a flashback
and then the reality hits back.

I don't feel in touch with any of my emotions.
why is it soo?
cause i am healed?
or...
this feels just right, lets leave it here,
just for today?