I didn't fall for him
I simply tripped

so
let’s talk,
old friend.

what is it
that you want to say
to little old me?

I’m not good enough?
you don’t trust me?
I’m not sure that’s my fault.

I admit there were
issues with our ship,
but I didn’t wreck it.

here we sit
old friend,
on this deserted island.

each searching for
something the other
just can’t provide.

I’m going to get up and run
to the arms of my
Strong Rescuer.

while you sit in the sand,
and continue to cry because
no one will save you.

I’m truly sorry
that things didn’t
go so well.

but here’s the thing,
I’m making my way
off this island.

you won’t come with me
so I’ll have to leave you behind,
but you have to at least try.

I’ll see you again sometime
in the future, once you have
let your feet lead you to the Rescuer.  

for now,
goodbye
old friend.

Poetry isn’t only pain
Poetry is a cup
you can fill it
with whatever you like

A voice said, Look me in the stars
And tell me truly, men of earth,
If all the soul-and-body scars
Were not too much to pay for birth.

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf,
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.