It seems wrong that out of this bird,
Black, bold, a suggestion of dark
Places about it, there yet should come
Such rich music, as though the notes'
Ore were changed to a rare metal
At one touch of that bright bill.

You have heard it often, alone at your desk
In a green April, your mind drawn
Away from its work by sweet disturbance
Of the mild evening outside your room.

A slow singer, but loading each phrase
With history's overtones, love, joy
And grief learned by his dark tribe
In other orchards and passed on
Instinctively as they are now,
But fresh always with new tears.

Warmth is a jumper,
a knitted, sewn and cross stitched bunker
in which we exist and sweat in, let out sighs of
I am okay or  I'm always this upset,
and behind those patterns we see the world
through a window the size of a pea, an out-of-focus
key hole where we can watch and wait
and be warm in the thought that
we've no work tomorrow.

Warmth is a blanket on a bed,
a mass produced widespread piece of material
in which we can dive under and have serial sleeps
that carry on into the evening;
and the light coming in through the wide window
hits the Hiroshima shadow-damp on the side wall
making it dance with the commuting-home-traffic.

I watched through tears
--That streamed like the one out back
And the scattered clouds
--The ones that floated overhead for years
A twilit ridge inurn the sun.
It was one of those rising hills of my youth,
One my infant eyes always thought
Gave birth to the moon
Time and again.
With its innocent face smiling
That worldly crispness is lost
And the foggy past is far more defined.
Who are these forms I've lost?
They are but phantoms,
(I tell myself)
And now intangible, those memories
Acidic and dusted with sugar
Held suspended and taunting, like
Feet at the mouth of an open casket.
The cold, bitter knives of impersonal
Reunion
And rejuvenated promises
--Only now remembered, only now forgotten—
Illuminated once again
In the dark.
Passing onward and through
--Like our time together—
Exactly like wind through these **** dead branches
And this grave: winter-bare.
I remember the vivacity
How enlivened the sky, that I
Each day for granted took
And how so much smaller, in my youth,
The mountains afar looked.
But there is no home,
It died when I left.
The poison I fought
Has become the blood which pumps the heart,
Now corrupt,
Antithetical.
Nothing is more colorless, not sky,
Nor hill, nor moon,
Or ever more formless
Than what I once called home.
Now that only exists is deteriorated
A rotting house:
Four walls and a roof to keep
Hatred dry,
Windows and lamps, so
Hatred has eyes,
And all the people that
Hatred hates most.
How cozy it must be to sleep in
One’s own bed, no?
To have some stable place,
And an ounce of certainty?
As for me, that will never be
Again.
Though the house is open,
Lock, room, and all
The home is closed forever
Without a proper epitaph.
Vain death.
Vain,
Vain,
Death.
Now all I can only turn back
And flirt with shadows
Just outside my arms
Walk with images
Shifting, growling, and oh, so dark
--mere abstraction
--future so stark--
With no companion but defeat.
I can’t hug a memory,
Nor cry on recollection’s shoulder,
Nor can my mother or sibling console me,
And I cry alone.
Maturation is merely widening a distance, so
I should let them go,
Bid them adieu
Because, I can't be homesick
For a home
I can't go back to.

Blinding noise fills my being,
There’s no room for my thoughts.
The peak of the night,
the time of our lives.
Sway to the beat, hands in the air,
Attempt to rid ourselves of this world.
Catch a ghost of my reflection,
staring back it says,

Where have you gone?
What have you become?

Her eyes, so empty.
The withering soul pleads,

You’re lost within this maze,
I’m losing my grasp.
Don’t drift any farther,
I can’t hold on anymore.

Turn away, banish the thought.
Skeptical and unconvinced,
But truth screams from the depths.
The cold seeps in,
Subconscious to conscious.
Just close your eyes,
Let this moment swallow us whole.
Escape from everything absolute,
Slowly suffocating from the absence.

Friends

Friends stop and stare,
I wonder if they even care.
Ones you thought were friends,
end up being just trends.
Moving on to better things,
lets see what tomorrow brings.
Some friends you think are the best,
all their drama just leave you stressed.
Most friends just pass you by,
even on the show they all said goodbye.
No one likes friends that are fake,
their more slippery than a snake.
Friends may come and friends may go,
its always money that they owe.
A once best friend is now an enemy,
its usually because of some kind of jealousy.
Some friends sleep with someone you love,
shoot them twice, then carefully dispose of.
Some friends from school you never see again,
they moved away to their new domain.
Some friends will last forever,
will stand behind you on every endeavor.
Most friends you can not trust,
even knowing you think you must.
No matter how big the fight,
true friends will make it alright.
Your best friend is usually your lover,
some friends you may never discover.
A real friend will stand by your side,
not run off and pretend to hide.
I've had so many friends, I can't even a count,
it doesn't matter the number or the amount.
Friends you have today, could be a foe tomorrow,
they leave you swimming in a sea of sorrow.
I'm very thankful for my friends, now and from the past,
with each other, I've had a blast.
Even the ones that did me wrong,
one way or another, you once did belong.
I've learned something from each one,
some friendships have not yet begun.

Take me down to the river's edge,
To pray and clear the monster's from my head,
To watch the water slide against the shore,
Personifying the real world:
Disorientated reflections,
Burdens like the pebbles that drag along the riverbed,
Carried by the undulating current beneath the waves
Like a pulse beneath transparent skin,
All slowly but surely heading towards the ocean,
A wide open space
Freedom.

Throw me into the river,
Watch me as I drift away,
Let me reach the ocean
So I can have that freedom too.