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like water
I poured myself into her until she was overflowing at the brim

like reinforced steel
I bridged my heart to hers and welded myself to her soul

like the sun
I filled myself with light to cover her darkness

like a blanket
I shielded her from the harsh world underneath the covers

like magnets
I orbited her aura until we inevitably collided

like a seed
I felt myself growing up from her

Then, like an idiot
I could tell she felt nothing.
My life's too dreary
Why did I boast?
Now I'm paying the cost
Oh! I'm so weary

Been on too many journeys
Carrying heavy loads
On life's numerous roads
Too weak to survive life's tourneys

They told me home is best
There I can find the cure
Then maybe,I'll become pure
When the beast in me finds rest

That's why I'm here on my knee
With tears in my eye
Sorry 'bout you and I
I'm still just trying to find me.
I'm waiting for the day when I get to freefall,
experience weightlessness;
with no worries at all.
Let the wind evaporate my tears
and let the whispers of it blow away my ears.
The whispers will launch me into reminiscing;
which may bring me back to a realization,
that this is the sound,
the sound of the unfinished fall.
this is a little poem in which a helpless person is waiting for something to change him, waiting for someone to help him realize his mistakes and correct them.
THE GARDEN
Walking in the garden today
I felt the beauty the garden had
I felt it speak to me
I felt me in the roses and flowers in the garden
I saw a beauty everyone saw, that made them come to it
I saw a gardener trim the garden
I saw lovers enjoying the beauty of the garden
I saw students, enjoying and having their fun time in the garden
I saw a novelist enjoying the quiet atmosphere the garden gave to help her imagination
But then,
Even though it was a garden filled with beauty,
Flowers that covered its nakedness
People all around it to keep it from being lonely,
Saw all kinds of love around it,
The garden never truly felt the love that filled the atmosphere
Because
No one saw the importance of a garden
Only it's BEAUTY.
There is always a other story only known to it's writer

— The End —