Sometimes a poet's muse
                            comes

          e
        r
   ­       r   a
               t  
               i c
              a
             l
               ly



like     a
           puzzle
                           s  c  a  t  t  e  r  r  e  d
on
          the            marble
            
        of
                      his
                               imagination
    

       then
                   he
picks
              his     quill
with

                 his
                          witty
hands
                      
and arranges
his  thoughts
into a poem.

Standing over the porcelain sink,
I find a girl I don’t recognize anymore
staring back at me.
Her eyes are sunken and lifeless.
Her smile has long faded
and her once lively complexion
pale from the lack of sunlight.
I can’t stand to look at my broken self.
Hope and faith are my most elaborate forms of self harm.
With every new hope, I die a little more inside,
because I know that in the end of it all.
My light for life is slowly dissipating as
I am always being brought back to my best friend,
disappointment.

We could a learn thing
or two from nature
Darkness is truly reassuring
Look to the fall of night
For that is when all is brought to light

Watch how the winged
creature flutters
Forget all that you have read
Good things never last
That's why fireflies flash