I sit outside in the cold, feeling the air wake up my skin.
I see three deer and think of Corky. I hope to see her again,

Although I am in nature, away from the city’s cars,
I can still hear one from afar.

I also hear several bird calls. One says “wee weee!”
While another answers with “cheep cheep” and another “tweet!”

I pray I will be spiritually ready to hear the messages,
Hmmm, I hope at breakfast there’ll be sausages.

I take life for granted way too often.
So much detail that now overflows
This one moment. It doth softens
My longing heart to now propose;

I will notice the unnoticed:
That which I see everyday,
That which I know is closest
To the great mundane.

Beautiful poetry from everyday poets
Beautiful music from professionals
Beautiful sunlight against swaying leaves
Beautiful movement outside the window
Beautiful simplicity in the dried leaf in my journal
Beautiful smiles from the bar tender

Beautiful time in the waiting,
waiting for eyes to look upon beauty with me.

the watch told time skewed
but the truth that he viewed
was not for us to understand
nor for us to watch along the sand.

Seconds ticked by
but as he looked to the sky
minutes dragged on
and hours fell silent upon,

his life

the sun flickers upon his hand
and thoughts of the past flicker upon his mind
no time there is for school or band
when sadness, lies, and regrets are behind

freedom from all thoughts is his prayer
but that is not possible for now
he fears this time he can not bare
but he must trust Him somehow?

the pink gloves rest softly on the table
And the sun drifts softly across the heart unstable

Soon my legs will fail
Under this pressure
If this wound is not
Cared for
I am tempted to
Dive into traffic to
Escape

The clichéd love bird's eyes stare blankly at the seed on the floor.
"Why should I eat if there is no one to eat with?" It asks itself.
Muscles aching from the night before
When countless attempts to leave the cage were destroyed.

The bird has learned to love its care-taker
But longs forever to find another to fly with.
It has matured, although reluctant to admit it;
Once before it sought after beautiful feathers and conversation.
Now it knows that a true bird always yearns to simply fly,

To fly on its own.
And with another.
At the same time.
Each in their own style.

It waits impatiently to pursue with all its desire the one it is meant for.
It is just the small problem of knowing which bird to look upon.
"It is too big of a risk; to fly with a broken wing." It says.

The caged bird flutters to and fro,
Afraid of escaping the open door,
Afraid of the probable depressing flight home to the worn out cage,
Afraid of the thoughts so destructive,
Afraid of the cage.
Afraid of itself.
Afraid of