The wind whispers
To the soft supple trees
Speaking of the beauty
When the robin sings

The wind whispers
To the smooth rippling stream
Speaking of the mystery
When nature sweetly sings

Nature whispers
And it turns to radiant song
In this, a lost soul
Finds where it belongs

I live behind a white picket fence
In the world of a wealthy child
I have everything I could want
Except the chance, or choice, to be wild
I live in a perfect brick house
With cobblestone drive and manicured lawn
I live in the perfect world
But I dream of what is beyond
My perfect white picket fence

Who am I
But a nightmare
Who tries to be an angel, I am
A shadow that only
Lives alone

Who am I
But a whisper
That makes no sound, I am
An echo with no words
Of its own

Who am I
But a thorn
That wishes it were a rose, I am
A thistle in a field
Of dandelions

Who am I
But a sharp note
That could be beautiful, I am
A note a note that makes
A minor chord

Who Am I?

                 *I am Me

Sunny blue skies
Cloudless for now
Waiting for the hour
Of midnight hues

Winds whip up
Shaking trees
Clouds appear
And darken overhead

Creating quickly
An unnatural darkness
Unlike the calm
Of starry skies

Storms threaten
The peace of night
Chaos started
With just the force of
*Winds

The first draft is always awkward
So I go back and write again.
But still the words seem awful
Almost worse than how they began

I wait a few days to think
Till I go back and write again
The words a little better this time
But the form is tight and thin

No luck for the starving artist
Who goes back to write again
I guess I'll be like my poem
Thin and almost worse than how I first began

I wish I could respond to what you write,
But it would all be the same.
You leave me breathless and curious.
You make me think and I love it.
I don't know what I could say
That would be anything
Worth hearing next to your words.