How do you know
What is meant for you?
In prayer and meditation you often find your wants.
Less often you find your desires
And rarely your heart tells you what it needs.
I need
What I can't have.
What isn't mine to take.
What has been offered and rejected.
What makes my heart grow.
I need what she needs more than me.
And what she has worked harder for than I.
I need what she wants so desperately she has staked claim to.
Before it has settled into her life.
I need, I want, I desire.
She deserves.

Unpack your bags filled with hate and selfish thoughts.
Don't think because you've carried it thus far it will be bought.
You alone are the owner of the sin you hold so dear
And the desperate, hungry monster that you have brought with you here.

Don't think for one small second I will entertain your game.
You should know that from this party will only come more shame.
Satisfaction will never find you when you ask and never give.
Selfless is perfection, the only perfect way to live.

My burdens are my own, just as yours belong to you
You brought this disease along the way and to the end you have to do
What you meant to do along the way, to carry it in your pack.
To feed off what you do not have, to feed off what you lack.

But your hate has no place in my life, and still no place in my heart.
Of nurturing this selfishness I will not have a part.
I love you with a love so deep it's only fair to say
I will not help you feed your hate along our two lives ways.

At midnight I am not responsible
To fulfill your need for attention
Over and over again you tell me
I cry when I’m alone.
I feel sad
Everyone, no one, these are the people I have.
Your love is a selfish love.
You love to get love in return.
There is no self-sacrifice,
No inspiration from the truest of love
For the love you dish out.
I can tell you I love you,
But I can’t be your ring-tone.
Each time someone does not call to say
“I love you, you’re perfect, don’t worry”
I love because you’re amazing in your own spirit.
Hate, the likes of which, I have never known.
But I will not support,
I will not condone
Your selfish, needy, desperate love.

Words do not come from the mind
Nor do they come from the heart.
They don’t rhyme because their sounds fit together.
Words don’t come from the mouth
The tongue or shape of the teeth.
Words are not music, or sounds, or even letters.
There is no science behind words.
There is no science behind what isn't tangible.
Words, the beauty of which are felt,
Come from the itching of fingertips.
It’s when you cannot speak that words become precious.
When you cannot rhyme that words have meaning,
And when you cannot feel that words hurt the most.
The power of words is the power of fists.
The softness of which is a mothers touch to her newborn child.
The beauty of freshly painted fingernails
Decorated with rings meaning love, forever, spirit.
The fingers.
The fingertips.
Flowing from the wrists and arms
The power source less
Only the itching to write what can’t be said.
What deserves to be preserved
Infinitely.

She always looked so tired
Like her green eyes hated to stay open
And her neck couldn't hold her head up;
Not with all of her thoughts going like racehorses down a track.
I loved the way she trudged this way and that
And how every breath she breathed was deliberate and thoughtful,
She planned each step and blink as if it was her last
That's the way it seemed.
Except when she felt the words moving through her
In a song
Or a poem
Or a story
And her neck would strain to feel it like a cool breeze on a hot day
Her eyes would open and refuse to close
Hoping it was the last sight they ever saw.
Her tired, trudging breath and feet turned into springs and she swayed
With the music of the words she felt inside of her.
And I loved her for it.
And for everything else.

I once stumbled upon a great beast of a tree
And I thought how like it is a man in this world.
From a seed this great tree grew from the ground
And his arms stretched where they once timidly curled.
I thought to myself how man is strong when storms blow his way
But, without nourishment, would shrivel to no more.
Like this great beast Man stands strong, protects and shades
Even when Man knows not what for.
Man's roots, his core, rely on the soil from which he grew
And to these things Man clings for life
A good man finds love in his mother and father
Or, if he's lucky, in the woman he calls wife.
A man is like a tree in the way that he stands tall
Even when everything around him slowly dies one-by-one
The might of a man can bring some to their knees
To some, he shines brighter than the summer sun.
A man is like a tree in the way that he is strong when he needs to be
Yet he knows when life is trying to make him drown
But often, though he stands and withers away
A man will not fall down.

A woman seeks guidance, but never direction
Because in matters of importance she knows
That though she loves with the innocence of a child
She will never forget her scars and her woes.
And her soft hands that you hold onto for dear life
Are covered with blisters and stories you will never hear.
You don't want to know that you need her soft hands
To drive away everything you secretly fear.
A woman dances ballet in each step she takes
And she never speaks, but each word she only sings.
Because a woman knows you need her sweetness
And rely on the peace her song brings.
Beneath her dress she wears armor
She knows her heart would be safer gathering dust.
Yet she gives freely her love, smiles and laughter
And, too often, her precious trust.
She is a dangerous warrior
With a spirit timid and fee.
A woman's love is a treasure
Much rarer than it seems to be.