I said I'd wait a thousand years
A thousand years I've waited
The fragile seeds of hope I've hewn
Have blossomed forth-
And faded.

The span of time, the falling sand
That journeys down the glass
Has shivered down to rest against
The last wish of the past

Words I've writ of you by night
Have lightened now by day
Would that I could read them now
I'd not hear what they say.

Truthfully, the beauty of a newly conjured flame
Undeniably must end
When met with winter rain.

Gift to me gifts, sure! not your present pleas
-If truly ****-poor posture deadens Grief.
Wish duly this, you're not sure, pressing needs
It's to me this: pure, hot, for less than these.
Which doobie hits? Forgot your lesson, Steve?
This truly is, more, (not for questioning.)
Ne'er take me for the motley foolish things
Where late thee adored me, got me by the cruelest means
-There may be morphine by the tulip leaves.
Share, make me more, free not the ghoulish wings.
Swear they need Morning Time, it's the newest tease
Where maybe pure themes rhyme with the truest ease.

Have you been writing since I left you?
Has the notebook on the dresser been collecting dust?
Has your quill gone without human grasp for the past three months?

Have you kept your brain shut off from your constantly screaming heart?
How is your head lately-
you were fighting those demons pretty violently the last time we spoke.

I'm sorry I left you.
I'm sorry I had to do what I did.

I didn't want you to get hurt.
I didn't want to ever cause you pain.
Please remember that.

It's just that you put me on this pedestal;
and I'm afraid of heights

You thought I could fight your demons, but it was never my fight.

I'll always do what I can to help you, I'll always answer when you call.

I'll be the one jumping and screaming to celebrate when all your demons fall.


I hope you're writing.
I hope your thoughts are being put into ink.

I want to read everything if you'll let me;  someday sooner than you think.

Please keep writing,
it scares the monsters
keeps them at bay.

Please keep writing; one day soon they'll give up and go away.

Until then, know that I am thinking of you,
writing about you,
praying for you.

This battle can be won.
But only when you realize, dear
you're the only one who can make your demons run.//

Gift to me gifts, sure! not your present pleas
-Ne'er take me for the motley foolish things.
If truly ****- poor posture deadened Grief,
(Where late thee adored thee, got thee by the cruelest means.)


Wish duly this, you're not sure, pressing needs
-There may be morphine by the tulip leaves.
It's to me this: pure, hot, for less than these.
Share, make me more; free not the ghoulish wings.

Which doobie hits? Forgot your lesson, Steve?
Swear they need Morning Time, it's the newest tease.
This truly is, more, (not for questioning.)
Where maybe pure themes rhyme with the truest ease.

You can't find relief...
In reasons non existent;
In predicaments ill-explained.

There's no relief.
In trying to peer over towering walls.
With feet on tiptoes,
and necks sorely craned.

Relief isn't found...
In wishing upon droplets
that explode as they meet the ground.
Everytime it thundered,
and then rained.

Relief is in the trove
when the heart lets go.
To acknowledge the error,
to move on...
And commit fully to the lesson gained.