I don’t understand how you could me mine.
(What does the proud oak want with the pine?)
I can’t imagine how my long, skeletal hands
are the ones yours long to hold.
I am tough and coarse, like a pine,
Ever-green, constant, covered in spines
and needles, unpleasant and sharp to the touch.
While you, my love, are an oak.
You are strong and beautiful. Your leaves change colors,
fiery or verdant, you are loud when all others
shrink from speech. You, love, are dynamic, intriguing,
a tree that inspires poetry.
Your roots hold you fast, they run deep and true,
while mine fan out, shallow. I fear with no roots
to hold me, the wind could take me away.
(The wind will tear me apart.)
You are the one tree that grows tall and straight
in a place where the wind, fed by anger and hate
forces others to bend, to grow crooked, they’re lost
and confused, with nothing to reach for.
My branches are short – I offer no comfort
(from lack of ability or knowledge, I’m not sure).
Your branches stretch wide, embracing with smooth bark,
But an oak cannot love a pine.

Hello Stranger,
the one who cared.
I miss it,
the times we shared.

I use to know you,
You use to know me.
Now we're just strangers,
but as friendly as can be.

We pretend nothings changed,
we're holding onto the past.
But we both know it has,
And that this lie wont last.

Time to say good bye old friend,
time to say hello.
Time to move on from here,
time to let it all go.

I sit in this chair,
waiting for that call.
The one that tells me,
nothings changed at all.

But it has,
so that phone wont ring.
And for now,
all I can do is sing.

Sing for the moment,
the moments to come.
There may not be many,
but at least we've got some.

Hello Stranger,
good bye old friend.
One I knew well,
but that was then..

One of these days, I'll learn how to write
But I'm doing the best I can
I'll probably never be Edgar Allan Poe
Or any kind of famous man

No one will ever know my name
Or even hear my rhymes
I've told myself it doesn't matter
At least a million times

For me this life is over
There's no where else to turn
The time has come for me to end it
I guess I'll never learn

Don't anyone try to stop me
For it will do no good
Things are just gonna happen
The way I knew they would

It's time for me to **** myself
Yes, It's time for the blood to flow
How long does it take to die from a paper cut
Does anybody know?

To your can't, I say won't,
and that's fine, love. That's fine.
To your try, I say don't,
and that's fine, love. That's fine.
To each failed attempt,
I say wasted ambition.
To your look of confusion,
I say you wouldn't listen.
To your heartfelt regret,
I say no need, it's fine.
I felt loved for a while
and that's mine, love. That's mine.

My precious sweet potato pie, my darling little damselfly,
your life is still a lullaby, and I love you more than life so I
kiss chubby fingers pinched in play, make root beer floats,
chase bees away, but even I might break your heart someday.

When I was eight, I threw a rock at my cat.
I wanted something to love me, and he
didn't. Unfamiliar with rage and unskilled
at throwing rocks, I missed and hit the fence.
I was and am ashamed of this.
I wasn't that kind of kid.

Once, a boy sent me photos from Scotland,
daybreak over  the snowy moors where he
hunted grouse with his father. He was skinny,
and sweet. I stopped writing him because I
had a thousand words for love, and he
couldn't spell any of them.

And once, I took your love for granted. It was vanity;
I felt like the lost works of a prolific master.
I wanted someone to delight in discovering me,
to wonder where I had been. It was easy to
blame you; all those years and you didn't
know what you had.

If you believe in all possible universes,
I aimed for the fence and hit the cat.
I married a sweet, skinny boy who will never
love a poem. I never had anything to prove
and I don't need you to forgive me.

No Garden, but this stand of
pines, and no serpents just this
side of night, but a sleepy,
startled porcupine; I'll offer you
some apple wine. You'll kiss
me in the fading light; I'll love
you without shame this time.

I pretend that your poems and 
my poems go
slumming in disguise;
carrying on in dark doorways
of riverfront bars—
tipsy, telling secrets,
spilling out into the sweet-smelling
night,
libertines 
more in love 
than they were before.

I do not believe,
that the solution to our problems
lies in the hands of our politicians.
I do not believe,
in the conviction of the world's religions.
Or those who preach of
Lucifer and Jehovah.
I do not believe,
in changing ourselves
to please those around us.
I do not believe,
in this world’s
so called "justice".
I don’t believe in these things because;

Society is a shifting tide,
government is corrupt,
religion is flawed
and people are fickle.

Privacy is long forgotten, buried beneath Capitol Hill
And peace is a flame, flickering in the winds of change.

There is also that
which I do not see.
Things that do not stand in front of me,
but in these things I still believe.

I believe in things we cannot touch
that others do not know,
that we may question and hypothesize,
but never doubt.

Things that make the branches grow
And form the winter snow

These beliefs aren’t good nor bad,
but they are mine to bear.
Because through my time, this is what I’ve seen,
and although that does not make them so,
my beliefs, will never cease to grow.