She was not grand
As is the Green’s great oak,
Nor rare,
Her kin dot the land in modest abundance,
In her position lay her magic
Dozing quiet on the edge of hallowed ground
Canopy politely shading the walled path,
How many feet passed under her boughs?
And how many small hands, under autumn’s dappled sunshine
Did joyfully plunder her mahogany treasures?
A rite of passage for several generations,
Making the journey to and from learning just a little sweeter
And now she is gone
The hole she leaves greater than the space she took
So perhaps, grand she was, after all.

Do you know that feeling?
When her head is on your chest, and the world has stopped to say "What a lucky *******.".
That feeling of being home, even if it isn't home, it is just the comfort of another's arms.
You will poke fun at her, laugh with her.
You will burn the memories so deep into your brain that nothing could ever hope to uproot them.
Because these are the memories that will last, the ones that you will remember forever.
How does it feel? To be the center of the universe in that moment, when your two bodies are intertwined.

The only thing that matters is her eyes. The way they sparkle when she laughs, the way they smile at you approvingly. A thousand songs and a million poems couldn't possibly capture the moments between you two. Not even the most beautiful of sunsets could match them. Even the tranquility of the stars themselves are pale comparisons compared to everything about her.

She will be there one day. To teach you how to feel once more.

Have you ever written about love
until your eyelids were heavy
and tears drip dropped
from your eyes,
when clearly you knew
you had awakened the beast
that lies inside you,
deep and wide.

This is when I hear the world begin
to count the ways
it can swing
against my pride.  
When I want to hear you say
I am beautiful
wipe away
the tears I cry.

I could proclaim that roses
slide over all of my shadows
and hold me close
until I no longer want
to be anywhere else.  
Say farewell
to these lines I write,
put them on a shelf.

Yet still, I write of the love I know,
day by day, on paper
until the ink of my soul
becomes a gentle scent
which fades into each page.
Again I wake the beast
inside of my heart's cage.

Screaming, screaming, screaming.
She sunk further and further down under.
The deeper she got,
the more entangled in her lies she became.

Fighting, fighting, fighting.
She had been in constant combat mode.
But the struggle was only halfhearted,
the end was inevitable.

Dying, dying, dying.*
She was losing all she ever had.
Her relief grew
with the pain.

Shapes coalesce
        in the liquid
   effervescently
iridescent upon contact
        with air.

As a drink,
      so shall the mind flower
   lotus glow--
growing
       green/yellow
           spindle
feeding my subconscious
pleasant portraits
          painted atop
     Chrysocolla blocks.

Some time ago.. I decided
To not allow
Your problems
To be
My problems
You gon hafta pull that wagon by yourself…

Hell… my own load is heavy… sometimes real heavy…
And I just can’t pull yours and mine too… though I do sometimes try…

But I’ve found that when I try… for too long…
I start to droppin’ stuff… and then I feel bad…If it’s your stuff…
And I feel worse... if it’s my stuff…
Then it’s not just heavy…
But it’s heavy and dropped stuff… and

I’m scramblin’
Tryin' to make sense of it all… or fix it… or patch it... or clean it up… and
It’s affectin' me… and my head aches… and my stomach hurts… and
I’m wonderin’… why…? and
I’m countin’… how long…? and
I’m wishin’ somebody would come along… to help me…
To pull this load…
Until finally…
It came to me…

I need not allow
Your problems
To be
My problems
You gon hafta pull that wagon by yourself…