There is a mountain across the sea
And at night I hear it call to me.
Restlessness
Not  anxiety
Is the reason I must leave.
Nomadic blood compels me to roam
I've never called any one place "home"
So it has been all of my life
So it shall be until I die.

I can feel it pulling
I can hear it coming through the clouds
The little red balloon understands.
He is my only friend
In these short hours near the end

And when the time comes
To pack my bags and leave
No one will remember me,
But that's how it's supposed to be.
I have learned to love
This crazy life I lead
Never looking back

Never looking back.

I must admit
That I admired the angular
Shape of the bones in your face,
The fey-like slant of your eyes,
And how you carry yourself
Somewhat like a bashful child.
But I'm not one to act on impulse
--not the impulse of the eye,
And was content to occupy my little corner
Just sneaking a glance now and then.

Then you spoke.

Insight poured from your mouth
Like honey from a funnel.
Pure intelligence,
without arrogance,
Caught by a slight stutter.

I could feel the blood in my veins
Rush to my face
And became painfully aware of my breathing.

You stood waiting for a response
And I just stared at you like  
An idiot.

My days are filled
With Quadratic functions
And Hydrocarbons.
I've had little time for
Billy Collins.
Or sleep, for that matter.

I'm thankful for the little
Moments like this.
When the professor can't find
His power-point.
Or a lunch hour where
I eat something besides text books.

I need time to reflect.
Find myself under all this stress
Take a breath and
Play a quick game of
"Where's Waldo"
With my soul.

Scribble some words
Or a picture.
Or maybe,
Just stare out the window
Contemplating the willow tree
And how her limbs struggle to
Kiss the ground.

I have pieces of myself
In boxes under the  bed.
Tonight I'll take each,
Neat brown parcel into
The woods
And burn them.

The parts that feel
The parts that sing
The parts that care for anything

The parts that remember
Will disintigrate in the embers
Of the first summer fire.
Erasing every trace of my presence here.

Time to disappear
Into the night like
A vapor in the wind.

Follow if you wish.

It seems that after
Thousands
Of words
Hundreds of thousands
Of expressions
My fount has
Finally
Dried up
Maybe it’s hormonal…
(cuz this happens)
Or
Maybe I’m depressed… and
Need some ice-cream
(cuz ice-cream always makes things better)
But
I just don’t feel like writing anything at all…
No thing inspires me
To expound upon it
Can’t even seem to write
A bad poem
Unless I count this one
And I don’t
But I do admit
It is bad
So I will re-start
This bad non-poem
And not talk about
Hormones or depression or ice-cream
(even tho ice-cream always makes things better)
I’ll not expound upon
How I am un-inspired
To ever again
Wax poetic…
But will instead merely query~
Has my fount
Truly
Dried up?

Every ending has a beginning,
it is when you choose
to teach what you have learned,
to accept what you have lost,
to smile from what you have cried
and to realize
that life is still beautiful
even if you have been hurt
by someone else...

So, never doubt to say:
"Thank you for the broken heart"