Vibrating strings create
Intensely beautiful sound
Of artistic expressions.
Lullabies, filled with
Internal longings discovered.
N**ostalgia waves hello.

I write the endings first. The plot. The
destination-- but it changes
at some point in the middle.
After all, how could I
know where my writing
is headed when
I don't know
who I
am?

The words that flew out of your mouth,
Were everything but true.
I believed all that you said;
I guess lying was something you never outgrew.

The lies continued throughout the year,
All the while, you had my support.
I could do nothing when your reputation was smeared,
With your deceitful heart.

When your lies were discovered,
You didn't say a word.
I wanted to get away from you;
The entire thing was absurd!

Now, one year later, we still talk,
But things will never be the same.
What's more? You say you love me!
I don't believe you. Your lies are to blame.

Tonight the winds are blowing,
blowing hard, and cold.
biting at the noses,
of unforgiven souls.

These winds place their burdens
onto heavy hearts;
only further weighing down,
and throwing poisonous darts.

They used to be pleasant,
never cold or deranged.
but now, new winds are blowing;
the winds of change.

This poem
I think to myself
as my shaking hand takes to the page,
Will be about the day my father left,
my first day of college,
or even the way my hands shake when I write.*
I write six words,
scratch out seven more,
and continue until I notice
i'm left with
a sloppy "i
           still  
    need
        you."