I am from the strangers,
from questions and wonders.
I am form the un-seen, lurking in the corner,
secrets wanting to be found.

I am from the light bulbs,
the consuming of energy,
variety of flavors, the good and bad both locked in cells.

I am from the past and the present,
from the twinkling light and dreams of sugar plums dancing in my head.
I am from the truth,
the key of the universe, step by step instruction of you and me.

I am from the pillow fights and jumping beans unable to contain the joy,
transformed into flushed faces and thundering storm clouds hovering over heads,
the every so slightly music of broken glass.

I am from the I-hate-yous', there I-love-yous'
the faint flashes of faces, the sketches of new ones.

I am from the dreams, the reality checks, the laughter, the crying.

I am from YOU.
Molded and shaped, chipped and torn,
assembled a thousand times better.
I am from those memories, these moments,
the seconds we gain from living and the time we lose from dying.

I am from the particles in the air, the dust and the ashes.
Nothing is truly lost, looking beyond the looking glass.
Mistakes are not mistakes.

I am from me. Me, myself, and I.

Altered by the winds laced with a threnody tune,
life in the northern woods will never be the same without its bloom.
The deceased puppet master continues to pull the strings of the dehiscence heart,
one of this game is forced to take part.
The ears of an indecisive mind take in the plaintive sound,
which provides an ongoing reminder of how these feet are forever bound to this ground.
With the chances of escaping  this monochromatic box slims,
one might begin to take a swim.
The ideal way of living becomes a compromise,
the old personality leaves only the eyes.
Shed away in a abscission fashion,
and along with that goes all the passion.
Sitting down to confabulate with a higher knowledge,
carry  on the dreams of going to college.
Storybook barriers leave no saltant mood.
Being passed by society is quite rude.
A misnomer indeed,
being labeled wrong because of greed.
Hunger of such has taken a life,
of one upon a lake that was never a wife.
Letters that hold such wicked silence,
that can never be undone even with science.
This blue body surrounded by an invisible malediction,
or maybe that is all just fiction.
He has nothing left from his unmanly lies,
upon keeping secrets he thinks he is wise.
Knowing it all is never enough,
but with an abecedarian brain on might just call it a bluff.
Eventually farewells must be given without hate,
and one might hope to return as if all was in a somniferous state.