Under the dead oak
Where dead hands reach from the roots
To grab at my legs as I stare up
Into the pallid luminance of the goddess moon.

I wonder if my time should come,
Would I spill all my secrets?
Would these outstretched fingers be calling out to the stars
Receive me as my soul flew from the scars
And saw me off into the distant distance
Would heaven be so hard to achieve?

Well, I’ve spent all my years,
Coming back to this retreat,
Umbral canopies hide my escape
As I write for days about the last one
Because the last one I thought was the one
And in all these moments I’ve -
Grown to know that I’m
Not very certain of certainty, no.

I want to know before I go
Off into the ephemeral ether
Was I ever the one you chose?

As the curtains begin to fall
And the stage starts to fold,
May I find courage,
If I could be so bold,
Reaching the pallid luminance
With arms outstretched by the root
I’ve barked so loud at the moon.

Touched by the light of grace,
Hoping these limbs shape the form of your face
Could you be the one?

Without poetry, we'd all
be chained to fences of time.
locked in,
torn apart,
played with by the
cosmic dance.

Don't get me wrong,
the poems can't
cure cancer, or heal the
lame dog's leg.
But, they might give
the ****** hope, and the
hobos a home.

Poetry tricks the mind
into seeing things,
like woolfhounds with
bagpipes playing an
Irish jig, far away from
the ferryman and his ride
across the river.

Without poetry, about now,
my skull
would be a home for beetles
and worms, turning
ever so slowly into
dust.

I yearn for the freedom of a bird, soaring high above the mundane,
Yearning to break free from the constraints of the grounded world.
When did the spark of imagination flicker and die?
Leaving behind a monotonous existence?

I long for the carefree days of carnival rides and cotton candy,
The thrill of the wind stealing my breath as the roller coaster swoops down the track.
I remember the awe-inspiring spectacle of fireworks,
Not the passive indifference that once filled me,
But the vibrant colors that danced in the sky,
Not muted and mildly annoying.

I crave the excitement of skipping school,
Feeling the rebellious spirit coursing through my veins as I run up and down the halls,
Instead of the tiptoeing and begging that now characterize my days.
I yearn to experience the fluttering of butterflies,
The nervousness of a first kiss,
And the pit of my throat clenching with the fear of asking a crush out.

Where did that innocent anxiety disappear?
When did imagination succumb to monotony?

I miss the simple, crude drawings I used to create world-building,
The comics of my own design and mind,
Characters rich with backstories and lives of their own.
Now, I struggle to put pen to paper,
I wonder if my words ever truly resonate.

Do they understand me?
Was I ever truly understood?
How I wish I could start over, grow in a way that doesn’t **** my garden,
But there’s no rewind.
I could wish on every four-leaf clover, but that’s not enough.

As I watch them fly overhead,
I can’t help but feel a sense of envy and longing.
I yearn to be them, carefree and clinging to the freedom that seems to elude me.
The air rustling through their feathers,
Taking me away into the ether is a tantalizing reminder of what I could’ve had.

I wanna ask someone
how does it feel to be loved
how does it feel to have friends
how does it feel to be a hope
how does it feel to be a ray of sunshine
how does it feel to smile
how does it feel to laugh
how does it feel
then i find
I have no one to ask