Today my mind is filled with the smell of
the burnt oak tree on
The earth around the tree has regrown it's grass
and the dirt no longer smells like
melted metal and plastic.
The air no longer smells like smoke,
yet all my nose smells is the aroma of
Of blood and seat leather.
The fire still burns my skin when I think about it.
There's an empty hole in my heart
that he left when he flew through the stars and back
over the moon.
Could it be--
I had seen him before
Engulfed in the blazed sun?
Atop a building
In the summer air with the wind
Blowing through his auburn hair,
Oh, what a dream!
A water colored blur--
Subtle and bright but detailed
By each individual brushstroke.
Oh, what a dream!
What an enchanting light!
How many more children have to die
before we stop believing the lie that
America is safe
and America is great
and that we all live under the rule of a really great guy?
Before all our children don't need to vie
just to survive
going to school and coming out again alive?
Before mental disorders stop being the
brunt end of a joke
and that maybe there might be hope
that those who suffer don't have to walk on a tightrope?
What about when we can start living in harmony?
When we stop judging others and
start shunning dishonorary
acts of violence
acts of hate
and acts of crime before it's to late?
How many more children have to die?
This is getting ridiculous you guys...
When someone gets angry at you
for just being nice,
I wonder how bad they must truly be feeling.
I told him just a simple word of advice:
You shouldn't talk bad about people behind their backs. It's not good.
He got angry at me.
He raved about how I let someone talk crap about him
and said nothing.
Because I know that you're better than that.
Ben is a lost cause.
Why waste my breath on someone who wont hear?
He ranted again.
I wonder how bad he must truly be feeling.
Breathing in your second-hand smoke
Feeling your flame on my exoskeleton
Listening to the ashes in your mouth
Inflating my lungs with your truths and your lies
Using what I know to make your skin crawl;
A dear spider
In your garden I haunt you like a ghost
What I know now.
My ex should not spread lies.
He halted in the wind, and—what was that
Far in the maples, pale, but not a ghost?
He stood there bringing March against his thought,
And yet too ready to believe the most.
“Oh, that’s the Paradise-in-bloom,” I said;
And truly it was fair enough for flowers
had we but in us to assume in march
Such white luxuriance of May for ours.
We stood a moment so in a strange world,
Myself as one his own pretense deceives;
And then I said the truth (and we moved on).
A young beech clinging to its last year’s leaves.
I waited to tell her about something important.
I asked her if she knew I would tell her if anything worrying would have happened.
"Yes" she said.
I debated on telling her right then and there.
It had been eating at me since Thursday.
He had been saying worrying things for a few days.
I hadn't engaged in it,
or tried to engage in it either.
I wanted to make sure that it was the right thing to do.
I felt guilty about not telling her.
So I had to.
I don't want to be the one to hurt her this time.