He walked away
But he looked back
What I would say
If I could have
I miss the days
Before gone bad
I miss the way
We were not sad
You cannot stay
Well that is that
It's your choice babe
I hope you're glad
Choice I would make
Wouldn't be that
But it's too late
Too late for that
He walked away
But he looked back.

In November I met that love
and by the end of summer we ceased.

Two months later came, like it does.

He snapped his collar bone from skating the bowl.
I got drunk alone and spewed guts on myself after the first hour.
Only one was a side effect from the breakup.

Too scared to face it, we pass by with silence,
too many different kinds.

One day.

But I don't think I'll be able to say anything correctly.

Small talk.

He remarks, "My bone is healing up."
Well.
All I have is, "I'm still throwing up."

If dying is similar to sleep,
I'll lie in bed and count the sheep
They'll smile at me in passing-by,
And wait for me on the other side.

All will be glad when I finally come
The sheep will dance, and laugh and run.
And all the animals will see
That dying was the fate for me.

My loved ones back home won't understand
"We want you back," They'll cry in demand
But alas, I am much happier here
With the sheep, the birds, the rabbits and deer.

For what I lacked in life I have in death
And I'll never return to breathing a breath
If dying is sleeping, I'll sleep all day
As long as with the sheep I will stay.

Underneath the willow tree,
Sits below just you and me.
And all the many other things
That sit beneath the willow tree.

The willow tree between we,
And we around the willow tree.
A single bird begins to sing,
Underneath the willow tree.

I look at you, look at me,
Our eyes show that we’re happy.
The ground sprouts signs of the spring,
Underneath the willow tree.

My hand slithers cross the ground,
Hoping that hers can be found.
Wondering what this act will bring,
Underneath the willow tree.

Finally our fingers touch,
Hearts are beating so **** much.
Through the leaves the sun glinting,
Underneath the willow tree.

In a fury mind gives way.
I will take her, here, today.
Together our bodies cling,
Underneath the willow tree.

As we begin to reach bliss,
I lean to you and we kiss.
My whole body starts to sting,
Underneath the willow tree.

In the end we’re where we were,
Me just sitting next to her.
Our world hanging from a string.
Underneath the willow tree.

Singing birds are often better off caged, and maybe I’m no different. Maybe it’s safer, biting my tongue and shoving my hands deep in my pockets when the urge to delineate my woes shivers its way up my spine, shaking the rust from the back of my teeth and loosening the hinges on my jaw. I’m constantly reminded that the world outside my mind is far too dangerous, too brutal for my fragile thoughts, for my feeble words. But every now and then those words get the better of me. They convince me that their songs are worth hearing, that they’ll survive the hell that awaits them. Then, eager and  hopeful, they jump off my teeth like a diving board, spreading their wings and gliding out into the world of the unknown, the world of wars waged to divide and battles fought to conquer. I watch as they hang suspended in the air, wings spread, small and beautiful against the ominous background, innocent if only for a fleeting moment. But, of course, beauty has no place here.
I cringe as the shots ring out from all directions, as everyone around me opens fire upon my winged thoughts. I shut my eyes tightly against the firing of guns, arrows, cannons: delivering the message loud and clear that the airspace between me and the world is better left unclouded by my superfluous banter. I try not to watch as they drop from the sky, my unsuspecting words, but my eyes force themselves open. Wings broken, hearts still, they crash to the ground, silenced.
I want to gather them one by one, my feathered thoughts, gently in my hands; I would take them somewhere safe and give them a proper burial, for they were once so near and dear to me. But I’m afraid of what lies in the battlefield. I’m afraid of the landmines and the barbed wire and the trenches. So I bow my head, refasten the locks on my sore, stiffened jaw, and turn my back on the carnage, on the dirt and grass and the haze and smoke. I turn from my defeated birds, form the bodies of my barely spoken words, and I leave them.

There's some sanity
in these circumstances
that slide through my view:

"Is it possible to live like you?"
He asked without knowing what
he meant, "because I want to know."

She laughed, still hugging a stranger,
"Inside you're very busy, calculating.
Only alone-ness can give true happiness.

Create some silence within,
for silence is love; and where
there is emptiness, love can flow."

"But how can I love so much?"
He spat his snide remark.
"No love can be inexhaustible."

"For me there is no other-ness;
every one is an extension
of my Self." She smiled.

"All the love I give is returned;
every drop taken is returned to the source.
It is inexhaustible because nothing is wasted."

I want to write something to fix me.
I want to write something to heal my wounds, to hide my scars.
I want to write something to wear that will make me beautiful. I want to sew something from words that will fit me perfectly, something that flows like linen, curves of S's fitting curves of hips, legs like L's and F's soft like lips.
I want to write something to wear like new skin, something to make me interesting to look at, to make me a poem worth reading. I want to be the one you tuck into your notebook and read in class. When you're tired of listening, tired of focusing, tired of everything, you can read a few lines off my shoulder blades, from my palms or knees, and maybe you'll feel better.
I want to write something that will make you laugh. God, I love your laugh, I'd write myself into a joke just to see you smile like that, my shoulders to set it up, collar bone to draw you in, my stomach could be the punch line and I'd have you cracked up for sure. I don't need to be taken seriously, as long as I can see you laugh.
I want to write something strong and heavy. I'll melt the letters together, weld T's to G's and K's to X's until I've written us an anchor. It'll be just light enough for us to carry, just heavy enough to weigh us down. I'll weave J's into ropes, we'll tie ourselves together, and toss our anchor overboard. No matter how the ocean writhes and tosses my words will be heavier, my ropes stronger. The anchor will hold us fast, words weighted by promises, fighting angry seas around us. No matter what, we will always be close enough to read each others' poetry.
I want to write something that will last forever. I want to set words in stone to be discovered long after I'm gone, to paint hieroglyphics on the walls of my house to be interpreted by future civilizations. "This is where I ate cereal." "This is where I showered." (Did I make you laugh? You know how I love your laugh.)
I want to write razor-sharp, white-hot points of infinite logic, and I want to write children's books. I want to write something that means anything but God, all I want is to write anything that means something.
I want to write something to fill pages, to break silence.
I want to write something to fix me.

You took my innocence
You took my sense of safety
You took my ability to trust
You changed my feelings on intimacy

But you gave me much more
You gave me awareness
You gave me caution
You gave me a blazing fire

A fire that burns inside
A fire to fight with
You had absolutely no idea
How much stronger I would be

You took my sense of safety
My ability to trust
But you gave me even more
A am forever a fighter