I've lost myself in the woods ---
Again.
But, don't worry, I have a lantern.
The Light is weak, broken, and shaken
against the four walls of
Darkness that claws at me.

There's a voice on my left,
sweet as syrup and smooth as silk,
it says things I've longed to hear.
But, at the same time,
There's a voice on my right,
painful as a potent poison and raw as rigid razors,
it says things I don't want to hear.
But is it the angel that whispers
sweet nothings
or is it the devil?
Should I layer myself like a grain of sand in an oyster
or should I dive, head first, into the cold water?

One of the voices whispers of a path:
A nice one full of warmth and love.
I turn to look, but before I can see,
I'm pulled down this path, struggling to breath
and trying to break away from needy hands.
In the struggle, I've dropped the lantern.
But, that's okay.
It's warm here, I guess.
But, it's becoming too much.
Wait, what's that? My lantern.
Small rays of light fight against claws to find me.
It's harder than I thought, picking the lantern up again ---
and finally seeing again.
This isn't what I was told.
This isn't what I wanted.
There isn't love here, only lies.

And now, another voice whispers to me,
sweet and angelic.
It must be an angel, to be so kind and gentle.
My right shoulder is in pain, a horde of
screaming people, calling me to reality.
But, I've wanted this path for so long,
dreamed of this way before I even knew it.
How can I turn that away when it is teasing at my
fingertips?
Tell me.
Please, I want to know.
Are you the devil in disguise
Or an angel undercover?
If I reach out, will I be burned?

The lantern is gone now, dropped during the struggle.
I think I know where I'm going, but without light,
I'm ignorant.
I will trip in these woods, this I'm sure of.
I've been caught on branches, and cut by thorns.
I've run from wolves, and have been bitted by bears.
I want to find my way.
I want to find the light, in the ever changing world of dark.

I wanted to dream.
I wanted to reach an
impregnable state;
a place where the
cold claws cannot clasp
around my humble heart.
And yet, I didn't want to leave.
The jagged jaw that juts itself
deep into my mellow mind
had found a home there.
It's familiar, friendly, and fond of my trains.
Trains that take me no where,
but lead me everywhere.
I have yet to find a train
that will take me away;
take me to a strange world,
and have its
foreign fangs flow flammable fluid
deep into my veins;
It will flood my tracks,
stop my trains,
and I may never be able to
leave.
Trapped.
Unable to escape
this impregnable world,
A world I thought I wanted.

Poetry is the art,
Of word selection.
It is the beautiful combination
Of syllables, rhymes, colors, and images.
A place where a description
Consists of few words.

In that sense,
I hope that one day,
The art of poetry that will depict me will be
Indescribable.
I wish for one day, to not be called
Beautiful
Pretty
Adorable or
Kind.
But, instead, I want to be
Indescribable.
"No one adjective can describe you, so you're
Indescribable.
You're everything: from beauty to fierce, and yet,
That doesn't seem enough. You are, love,
Indescribable."

You can't ask who I am,
What is important,
What makes me me.
What makes a
Beach a
beach

What makes a beach a beach?
Makes it not a cliff;
Not an abyss?
It is the
Water;
Sand.

Without any water,
The Sand will not be.
It will stay rocks,
Become cliffs
Without
It.

If the Sand were not sand,
Water would usurp
The beach.  It would
Be ocean
Without
It.

The Water is a passion
that could become visious.
The Sand is strict as earth
that has become stable.


What makes this beach unique?
Makes it so unreal;
A fantasy?
It is the
Water;
Sand.

You can't ask who I am,
What is important,
Because it's all
Part of me:
Good and
Bad.

It took a while for it to sink in.
The cold truth, that should have dripped onto my face
like an early spring rain, toppled me,
wave after heavy wave,
with the solid wall of a tsunami
that knows no bounds. And when I wake, on the
beach after the storm, I lay among the
debris of everything I had,
everything I built.
Gone.
Well, not really gone.
Ruins of magnificent structures,
things that were nothing but pieces until construction.
It all began to crumble. Now,
the skeletons sit on their graves, staring
me down with soulless passion
while I begin to shiver.

It's like the saying "You don't know what you have,
until it's gone."
When you have absolutely no idea
how very lucky  you are until the
moment after it's all ripped away from
you. Yes, a moment after, because you
have to process slowly what just happened.
A delayed reaction.
Sometimes, depending on how numb you are
to the world that encases  you, it can
be the moment after. Or, if you are
completely oblivious to how lucky
you had it, you could die without a
complete realization.

I knew what I had.
I knew I was lucky.
I just never thought:
It would be me that made it crumble,
I was a malfunction--
Self-destruct too early.
They say you can rebuilt what you've lost,
That these skeletons that watch me can be revived.
But how can you stop a clock that's still ticking?
How can you make it go backwards,
When the hands swirl around, marching in an
Ever vigilant pattern unable to go anywhere but forward?
But I guess that's the point.
You can't change what's been done,
You can't bring back what's dead.
Because, in truth,
It's Gone.