Quiet tears are shed
noiselessly
for a pain that no one knows-
that no one can know-
that few will understand.
Who among them could bear my burden with sincerity,
with true compassion,
with sisterhood in suffering?
I tell no one,
else my resolve be tested;
I stuff it down,
lest my fears erupt into a river's coursing madness;
I keep it hidden,
else my heart would break
and never repair itself.
I know what I PROMISED,
I know what I DECIDED;
I made my choice,
and I accepted the consequences.
I knew my fate,
what I'd given up-
but did I really know what I would lose?
what I would long and ache for?
what companionship I would never achieve?
The envy I would feel for others fates,
for the things they possessed that money can't buy?
I have lost so much on my way through life,
I've shared burdens,
made mistakes,
experienced love of astounding beauty;
So, why now is my heart breaking over a fate I believed in long ago?
Why do the stirrings of gentle matriarchy bring a new meaning to time?
And why NOW does time seem to click,
and tick,
and count the seconds away?
Though I struggle to make sense of these phantom pains,
I will not destroy the world I created,
nor the happiness of others;
I am a spectator to my own debacle,
the appearing betrayal of my own mortality,
A willing slave to my uncompromising morality and compassion,
bound by my pledge of service to my blood.
'I am your Guardian Angel', I had said-
They are the new Gods of your life,
sworn to nuture and groom you for the heoric fate that awaits;
I will not be a Harbinger of Doom
set on wreaking destruction where none is needed;
I made my decision-
and I shall not permit it to be unmade,
even by my selfish hands.
To the winds I cast my troubles;
to the skies I throw my voice,
heedless of what god would dare answer;
to my heart,
I beg silence-
Be still.
I have made our choice.

Made strong,
and sturdy,
I am built for suffering;
Created to bear the burderns
of those who cannot lift the weight from thier own shoulders.
I cannot abandon a fellow man to the cold
hard
ground,
one that would swallow him up
and eat him for lunch;
Even though I have tried to forget,
to turn my head away
from the misery of the world I see around me
and selfishly focus on myself,
I remember their faces-
pale and pink
awash with tears
and pleading eyes
and broken dreams;
those faces that hide sorrow
like an empty dinner plate
in a cob-webbed kitchen.
I give up
and let go
forgive slights
and keep secrets;
I am no ones puppet,
and no ones master,
not a saint,
but not a healer,
not a sinner,
but not a believer.
I exist
to take the hit
feel the pain
work through pressure
and walk through fire-
to steal away frowns from sorry faces
that never deserved them.
I give pep talks
and poems,
I greet strangers
on grey days,
in new ways
on buses going nowhere fast.
I'm not perfect by any means,
and I won't laud accomplishments
that aren't achieveable by anyone ordinary
because I find it too terrible that
My opinion is not shared these days;
because
we are all so busy watching tvs and idiots,
quoting gods and people we don't emulate
or care about,
serving cold dishes of slander
while not tipping the waitress who just brought you your beer.
Courtesy and kindliness are things of the past;
like shaking hands,
opening doors,
saying nice things,
or pausing to help someone cross the **** street.
SO,
here I am
a product of an era I never lived in,
a mirage existing in a world I can't abandon,
but that would easily decide to abandon me,
trying to inspire callous people to open their eyes,
their ears,
and their hearts
to see that sonderous ephiphanies still await.
I'm still trying,
and I always will;
Because I was made to suffer for fools.

Melancholy,
I stay behind these guarded windows
Staring out at all the commercials
And noisy car horns
And people
That covet and pervert
with their greedy, grasping eyes-
That revel in their desire and need
to possess everything new
And exciting.
They slowly peel away their humanity
Like expired bananas,
Left on the table too long,
Exposing the rotten fruits of their labors
That haunts them in their dreams.
I have no need of phones,
Or appliances,
Or whatever they're selling
At sales where everyone is
Shopping
   Pushing
     Stepping
        Shoving
           Grasping
              Stealing-
Where everyone is lying to themselves.
I'm not a crazed housewife,
Or a greedy collector,
Or a corporate sales exec;
I'm just a quiet observer,
Hiding from the spiraled descent of mankind.
I'm just thankful that these events,
That these sad, depraved people
are can't touch me in my quiet corner of heaven.
They are unimportant,
And in their chaotic rush
for power and possession,
They've forgotten the reason we draw close around the fire,
Why we share food and drink and memories;
Why we celebrate the sacred bonds of friendship
And family.
They've forgotten the smell of cider,
Boiling on the stove,
The taste of roast turkey,
watched and checked with patience absolute,
The comfy armchairs next to the window
That looks out on the freshly fallen snow.
They can't remember the warmth of a house
On a  bitter cold night,
filled with laughter and love,
Where stories and tales spring from lips to ear,
Recounting the years long past.
They can't stand still to cherish the beauty in the simple moments,
The richness of the holidays,
when the only thing you want to possess
Is a wide smile,
And a special hand to hold.
Yes indeed,
I look out my window at this day,
a day so dark it deserves is nickname,
And I pity then-
The sad souls that have forgotten
why this holiday is called
Thanksgiving.

Would that I,
a lowly grunt
could make more than
the average runt
just out of school,
degree in hand;
While I survive
on meager plans.
Equality is a grand concept
full of flaws
and many steps
that most among us
will never see-
for man is not known
for his humanity.
We strive to be better,
but what do we gain?
A fistful of debt,
and a mountain of pain?
And what do we learn,
except that life isn't fair?
Playing cards with a bad hand
and a dare?
That bleeding hearts and open minds
will make us quite impaired
and are considered bad qualities
that make us unprepared
for the lambast that life is,
for the spears of betrayal-
for the knowledge that everyone
as some point is a failure?
We enter these halls
as creatures of learning,
yet exit these doors
suspicious, discerning-
our youthful optimism
shattered and dashed
by ancient old teachers
with an impressive moustache.
So, what is the point
of institutional leeching?
Is this how we want
our teachers teaching?
Do we condone the lack of equippable smarts,
instead replaced with limited starts?
Or perhaps yet, there is another solution-
Quit hampering learning with political pollution?
Maybe thats an option-
maybe it's not;
but I'm a student;
that's all I've got.

Watching out my window,
a thought flies through my head-
about the little hummingbird
flapping overhead.
As it zips,
and it zaps,
and its little wings flap
so hard to keep going,
to suckle on sap,
it seems to me
that this little thing,
so tiny and frail
doesn't mind the sting
of tough days and tough nights
as it valianty fights,
as it works and it toils
just to get by;
working for hours
to have enough to still fly.
I think and I think
on the merits of this notion;
So deeply moved,
I am stirred to emotion.
I shake myself, rising
as I abandon my rest-
Move over world;
I have limits to test.

Once,
I thought I knew everything there was to know.
Once,
I hoped and dreamt without fear
of the unknown,
and the dangerous.
Once,
I was naive,
and gullible.
But we all grow up too fast,
don't we?
Years and painful moments
passed me by,
crippling
and maiming my good intentions,
my trust in humanity,
like a large mountain looming
over the graves of  the innocent.
Now you can see me
for what I truly am-
a child;
still clinging to the last thread of hope,
the last crumb of decency and promise-
a child,
too damaged to believe that any god exists,
or that anyone is coming to help.
People say that strength comes from surviving a fall-
that somehow,
the things that other people do,
with cruel and viscious intent,
are okay because they build character,
because they make you stronger.
I would have preferred that my wings were never clipped;
that I could have soared unimpeded
towards the greatness I was once sure I could achieve.
Oh, how I fell though-
crushed beneath the feet of people
who tread over me as if I did not matter-
as if I were to blame for daring to make a mistake.
Over and over,
I fall;
downtrodden,
belittled,
ashamed;
so many times with out fail,
so many times without mercy,
or hope.
I've seen my share of this earth
and all its inhabitants-
I have suffered at its hands,
and have lingered on its skin longer than I ever thought I might.
Yet,
I cannot stop myself from raising out of the dirt,
I cannot stay there and wallow in the mud.
A moment to cry,
and I am still not well enough to travel-
but there I am,
still trying,
still reaching for the stars,
crossing the universe
just to reach my potential.
This momentum is compulsion;
I cannot deny the world's cruelty
but I refuse to add to it,
to succumb to this named horror that plagues the weak and sorrowful.
I will not be a part in the machine;
I will be the wrench that sticks in its gears,
the anomaly in the calculation-
the virus in the code.
I will race to the distant fires of fortune-
hurting,
broken,
bleeding;
I may not be whole,
but I am worthy of a better future.

When all the world's a stage,
theres hardly any glory left
for those with no tales to tell-
but for stories with warp and weft,
that, woven like fabric,
secretly entrance
as it circles us up
in its loquacious dance.
We delight in these stories,
these words that settle like sand,
changing our idea
of what it is to be human.
These ones with vision,
those that stand apart-
these ones that drive the tears from our eyes,
and take pieces of our hearts;
Those ones with simple sadness,
these ones that help us cope;
Those stories that inspire,
and give us new hope.
We are fueled by these fires;
Our own ideas and reckless wonder
of adventures, and epics,
and lands torn asunder;
by wizards and goblins,
and fantasy;
by presidents and poor men,
and history.
By teachers and wise men,
and the people who died
to make this world better;
to keep these stories alive.
We indulge in these things,
these marvelous, twisting verbs,
because, sometimes stories are more than just words-
they are the wind under our wings,
the pain of pride,
they are the secrets we keep
locked deep inside;
they are the catch in our throats
when we say goodbye;
they are the moments we fail,
and wonder why.
They are our companions,
a constant pounding in our chest;
aching to burst out
to join all the rest
of time and emotion-
breaking through-
because,
in the end-
we are all stories,
a fable-
born from truth.