Oh, here the air is sweet and still,
  And soft’s the grass to lie on;
And far away’s the little hill
  They took for Christ to die on.

And there’s a hill across the brook,
  And down the brook’s another;
But, oh, the little hill they took,—
  I think I am its mother!

The moon that saw Gethsemane,
  I watch it rise and set:
It has so many things to see,
  They help it to forget.

But little hills that sit at home
  So many hundred years,
Remember Greece, remember Rome,
  Remember Mary’s tears.

And far away in Palestine,
  Sadder than any other,
Grieves still the hill that I call mine,—
  I think I am its mother!

There is nothing more powerful or more dangerous
than Hope
Even a thin, barely existent, nearly transparent wisp of it
can be devastating
It's a mist that floats into your mind
infecting your brain
with possibilities and images
of what should be, what could be, what will never be
Entirely plausible wishes and dreams
that leave crippling wounds
when they don't come true

I am but a boy,
who became a man.
And for every day I lived as myself,
I grew into something more.
Until I was more than I ever was before.
I lived a life's journey in 15 years,
Through every stone and sneer.
I have a strength that was always my own,
Yet it is a power we have all known.
I am strong with this power, as strong as your most powerful moment.
With this power I was there when You were hurt.
You with a capitol, because you are just as important as I.
With this power I felt your pain,
How you hated yourself.
You cut.
You starved.
You did your best to DESTROY yourself. To erase yourself. To... ****... yourself.
And you...

you...

you are still here.
YOU beat back depression.
YOU in all capitols because you are strong like I.
YOU took the talons of depression, hate, unhappiness, and you ripped them out,
One by one,
Each one took their tole, a piece of your beautiful soul.
But they left room to grow, to re-learn, and know,
Happiness, Peace, Joy.
You fought tooth and nail, you felt the pain like me, you gave all you WERE like ME, YOU sought FREEDOM from THE DARK like ME, YOU GAINED EVERY OUNCE OF POWER YOU HAVE NOW.
YOU gained it in saving yourself.
As I did the same.
Thats how I know I was there, along with everyone else like us.
I felt your power, Your strength, all your own, yet similar.
That strength... I admire it.
Never lose it, and I will never lose mine.
I love you, as a sister or brother.
For this strength we share.

I never realized the stress was you
Maybe I was in love with you
Maybe it was the of hate you
You're the devils charming smile
You're the number I could always dial
I'll never really know if you were the stress
Laying by your side, indifferent, I guess I'll have to let this rest

I.

I am the eye that floats on the wind.
The third observer
To your first person nonsense.
I see all and say nothing.
I am all and nothing.
Simultaneously the end and the beginning.
I hold your world together
With a steady stare.
If I blink you become a blur--
A quantum hurricane
In the blender of nonexistence.

II.

Or maybe
Somewhere in the multiverse
A version of me
Is drinking tea by a fireplace.

I'd like my grave how I like my women, shallow
because I'm sure they'll be the death of me
I'll be the plot back in the shadows
under the limbs of a mossy poplar tree

my personality is changing seasons
and it's messing me up beyond all reason
behind every leaf is a new part of the limb
I can feel myself flushing itself again

how exactly do the cosmos align
to create this light bulb in my mind
from holding a candle under a piece of string
to learning what it means to be a human being

emotions seem to feed themselves
the soul of the wicked is a prison cell
the moments before you scream for help
are the moments in which you truly find yourself

Enunciate your words
We cannot hear your muttering
What was that? There
There seems to be something wrong with my mouth
What was that? There
Seems to be something astray

I think it was a cat.
A frigid black cat.
I think it was a cat
there.

These shadows shade
the temporal rifts
of mind
these temperamental taps
of mine

D-d-d-do y-y-y-ou want to adopt a kitten?
D-d-d-do you want my kitten?
I have a litter

Spew the garbage from the pipes
scrub the grime off the machinery
unclog the arteries

keep it pumping
keep it pumping
everyone loves a good ****

I do not love thee for that fair
Rich fan of thy most curious hair;
Though the wires thereof be drawn
Finer than threads of lawn,
And are softer than the leaves
On which the subtle spider weaves.

I do not love thee for those flowers
Growing on thy cheeks, love’s bowers;
Though such cunning them hath spread,
None can paint them white and red:
Love’s golden arrows thence are shot,
Yet for them I love thee not.

I do not love thee for those soft
Red coral lips I’ve kissed so oft,
Nor teeth of pearl, the double guard
To speech whence music still is heard;
Though from those lips a kiss being taken
Mighty tyrants melt, and death awaken.

I do not love thee, O my fairest,
For that richest, for that rarest
Silver pillar, which stands under
Thy sound head, that globe of wonder;
Though that neck be whiter far
Than towers of polished ivory are.

I like the sound
Of glass hitting the floor.
The sound of the broken vase
As I carelessly throw it out the door.

Because it reminds me…
It reminds me that I’m not the only
Broken thing in this world.
It reminds me that
Just because I’m shattered,
I’m not alone.

It gives me hope.

Where I find true hope,
Is in the potter.
The vase I threw out the door,
It had to have been made
By someone right?
And that someone must have cared.

They put their time,
Their sweat,
Maybe even their blood,
Into creating it.
But the greatest thing,
They put their love into making it.

It was a piece of dirt,
Or more accurately a lump of clay.
But the potter,
He saw so much more.
He saw beauty,
When all else saw dirt.
So he molded it,
Into something of worth.

He crafted this lump of clay,
Into a beautiful work of art.
Simply because he loved it,
With ALL of his heart.

I destroyed what was created,
But can it not be fixed?
If dirt can become beauty,
Can broken beauty be repaired?

If I return the shattered vase
To the creator,
Will he care?
He could fix it.
So cannot my creator
Pull me out of my despair?

I like the sound,
Of Glass hitting the floor,
Because it reminds me,
That even if I’m completely shattered,
I can be healed.
It reminds me that
My brokenness isn’t life.
It reminds me that
There is so much more
Than the broken glass on my floor.