We are a forest; we are as dense as trees. But when one of us is cut down and plummets, none of us hear it. It's sad that our branches don't intertwine and our leaves don't share the same green and fall off our twigs when Autumn appears around the corner with its scythe, welcoming the coming of Dead Winter.

We are only a tire swing away from each other.

Our bark isn't climbed by the same children. We don't have the same tattoos, formed by the knives of lovers holding hands, in our wood. It would be better for us to burn down in a quiet Summer Holocaust.

The only way to join each other is to return to the dirt that gave birth to us.

A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky.

But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom.

Why must you make me mad?
Even if you don’t mean to
You do those little things
That make me madder
Than words can say.

Why must you do this?
Can you not do
Those few small things
That I asked of you
That you did for others?

Why must you hurt me?
I know you don’t mean to
But through all these things
You make me hurt
Because I really do care

Why must I make this choice?
Should I keep this connection?
Or should I cut you off from me?
If only I didn’t have to make the choice,
But that part is up to you.

when I woke up this morning,
you would have been half way there on the train
away from this
away from me.

you would have been writing,
thinking, contemplating, arguing.
pages would be filled up,
like your heart, and I
would keep wondering
what you wrote.*

I have nothing to hold on to
but your words, and letters
you sent me. I read them,
had every word memorized,
learned the rhythm and tone,
so I could hear your voice.

I find the deepest pain and the brightest joy
in your creations.
I long to know what you see with your eyes,
how you think with your mind,
how you make love with your body,
how you live in the world with your ego.

I would have left my world for ours,
in a heartbeat. I recognized you
the first time we met. Why can't we
run after our desires, live a life
we truly like, have our dreams
completely realized?

Why can't we become
whom we truly are?
You are what I want,
I am what you want,
why in the world
can't we be together?

I want to fall in love, stay in love, die in love,
to have you here right by me,
to feel you from inside me.
And that smile on your face
and this smile on mine
will forever shine.

Seize the night, better known as afterlife,
Leave the light of the days out of sight
And take sight of rays of the moonlight,
This is your new light and your renewed life.

I believe that upon your birth on earth,
It’s really your death,
And you won’t see rebirth,
Until the earth you’ve left.

So what does this mean, does life have no meaning?
No, just look at it as if we’re all just dreaming,
And we won’t wake up until we’re no longer breathing.
I guess this means life is really but a dream.

But can someone please tell me why,
We’re stripped from the heavens,
And sent here to die?

I believe some of God’s lessons,
Can only be learned through a mortal mind,
And most of life’s blessings
Are appreciated more when you’re inclined
To the belief that your days will end in time.

Day is the life we know,
Night is life to come.
In the day we’re supposed grow,
We see the night when we the growing’s done.
From whence the sun rose, is where the moon will glow,
The orbs of our lives, we should seize both.

Open asphalt field
Stretching across the land.
It seems the future is sealed
Without my hand.

The appeal of the plane.
The ability to simply leave,
Leave behind the archaic bane
To the sky with one heave.

If only to fly!
Leave it all behind!
Current life die,
New one, I find.

The simple answer,
Harder to cure than cancer.

From the far ends of earth,

to streets made of gold,

the sun's always shined,

since the long days of old.



one mountain to next,

two rivers apart,

three fields of blue,

but alike is the heart.



the center of peace,

a story untold,

four elemental stages,

and the heart never cold.



you wait and i'll listen,

as the winds tell the story,

of valor and freedom,

and a love filled with glory.



it's tale neverending,

it's peace always spoken,

your last fateful journey,

for a heart left unbroken.



so follow the signs,

remember the sendings,

your path is unfinished,

left to make your own endings.

Welcome to Psychotics Anonymous.  State your name, and little about yourself:

My name is not important.

I have a problem.
I don’t tend to preoccupy myself with others’ problems.
See, I don’t care about my friends, loved ones, or myself as much as I should.
I mean, obviously, I realize that  I don’t care about these things, but my problem is that I don’t know the real reason why I don’t care about them. I know I have a problem, but I don’t know how to fix it. Think of it this way,  you know when you look at roadkill on the road, you might feel sorry for it, for about a second, then you blow it off and keep driving. Some people might kick it or laugh at it, if they walk  by. Well see, that’s how I feel about important people in my life , and at times, about myself.  I’m the one kicking that road **** while its down. Except the road ****….is my best friend. Do I mean what I do? I’m not entirely sure, but I do know that it’s wrong.  I know that I should care, I know that I’m a bad person for it, but I don’t know why I still do it anyway. I have a problem. My best friend is in the hospital and I’m sitting home writing this instead of visiting her while she’s 10 minutes away. Instead of apologizing  and telling her it was my fault. I’m sitting here not caring instead of going up to her and telling her the truth she needs to hear. I have a problem. My family’s a woodpile on the side of my house. The wood I never use but I like to glance at from time to time and then ignore a few seconds later. That woodpile’s pretty close to me, its always in my proximity, but yet…I never seem to care that it’s there. But I notice it. Oh, how I do notice it. I notice it so much that I pretend to not notice it because my lack of caring for the noticing of this woodpile is the only thing that matters. I have a problem. My brother is sitting on my mantle, every day he stares into my eyes, hoping and wishing I would care. Every day he’s there reminding me that he not only needs to be noticed, he needs to be cared about, and so do I. And every day I ignore him and that photograph with that picture perfect Ivy League smile.I have a problem. I don’t care for myself. I don’t really do much grooming. I mean, I shave…because I hate touching my face and feeling prickles. I don’t cut my hair, I don’t shower until I start smelling. I don’t care. I work at the one place where caring doesn’t matter. I work counting other people’s money. I don’t get into trouble or miscount because miscounting annoys me and everything has to be perfect.  It needs to be counted right, or what’s the point of counting it? It’s not because I care for the welfare of the people I count money for. Au contraire, they have more money than I do and don’t deserve my care. I have a problem. Don’t tell me I’m doing okay because I’ve completed step one of your program, because I’ve admitted that I have a problem. I’ve just said it five times. I knew I’ve had a problem before I got here. That’s not the hard part. I want to care. I want to feel empathy, or at least sympathy. I want be like everyone else. But the hard part, is that I’m not. I’m not like everyone else. And though I’ve recognized my problems they’ll always stay with me regardless of how much you try to push them out of me. You can tell me to go to these therapy sessions til I’m seventy-five, but the only thing that it’ll do is just show you how many more problems I’ve come to discuss.