I like the lycianthes there, although I know they’re weeds
I like their pleasant purple hues, and watercolor leaves.

The Daffodils were simple things; yellow, later white,
Little puffs of breeze-borne smoke, ethereal at night.

The wild briers stabbed at me, as I walked out that day,
And yet they were the first to bring the green into the gray

I like the weeds, though others don’t, I realized it just now.
And to think I only realized it under an arbor’s bough.

The fall swept down on dragon's wings,
Whisking a world into flame.
The frost-winds flew,
As the coldness grew,
Giving the trees all a fiery mane.

Night, star-spangled,
Heralding an absent dawn,
Grave, then gray, then gone.

"We are dealing with oppressors who, while standing on our necks, will label us the aggressors if we spit blood upon their boots."

Broke my piggy bank for whisky,
Turned my jump rope into a noose,
And then I wrestled with my demons.
They got loose.

He was old and cold and strong and hard
With a bitter contemptuous jaw
Fierce, wrathful, unkind as any,
With anger and hate and rage against many
No warmness beat inside his heart, nor kindness, neither fear
For gods or man, and at his wake, I saw none shed a tear.
He went to extremes, and convinced us he was bad,
But underneath all that anger, I think he was just sad.
Sad and lonely and empty, and drowning in grief,
From living a life that was pointless and brief.

I loved her a lot,
She didn't quite care
But my heart still beat blood
And my lungs still breathed air