How one must declare his way of thinking,
Without offending another's way of breathing,
How must one walk his own journey,
While plowing through the lilies of the field?

The silent chill of the nights sweet calling,
Will one ignore the way it is drawing-
The coat around the stranger's back,
The wool it clings like soppy wet paper.

The pines reaching into the black silky sky,
Stealing wonder, boasting like the badger -
Make shifting the scene into his own world,
Backbone reaching, strong, furrowed.

A note, a baby's innocent cry, a laugh
Seemingly part of every single night-
One does not live without repercussion,
There is no passive in passion,
everything around is connecting,
This, offended men, is this possible to deny?

We loved the man
But could not say
Wanting his hand
Looking another way
We loved the sun
Leaving no shadows
A perfect illusion,

For the poet who dresses
In passionate sorrows.

Purple, the color for strong women
My mother boldly says,
I am not sure what she means
But she isn’t completely right in the head
The look in her eyes  when she is distressed
When panic takes over, taking her breath

Again I take this, I turn it about me
Writing some more sad poetry
While she speaks some nonsense
Another day she runs away from the cops
I pretend it isn’t real, a cloud of vape in my head
But it is digging like a drill, all that is said

One, two, three, elementary
Tears roll down,
The same way they do from pine trees
Thundering clouds, lightning
Bursting in this shell, my head
Purple, the color for strong women
But I am gray instead.