TWO loves had I. Now both are dead,
And both are marked by tombstones white.
The one stands in the churchyard near,
The other hid from mortal sight.

The name on one all men may read,        
And learn who lies beneath the stone;
The other name is written where
No eyes can read it but my own.

On one I plant a living flower,
And cherish it with loving hands;      
I shun the single withered leaf
That tells me where the other stands.

To that white tombstone on the hill
In summer days I often go;
From this white stone that nearer lies
I turn me with unuttered woe.

O God, I pray, if love must die,
And make no more of life a part,
Let witness be where all can see,
And not within a living heart.

The Summer is here...or was, once.
I remember it, beautiful and green.
The lush hues unbroken
shining in the golden sun.
green stretching for miles,
and i loved it.

But soon the fields began to change.
The sun burns too much.
moisture evaporating,
air becoming dry.
And the green was slowly dying,
on the lips of Summer's mouth,
and just hot breath was left
and even that was dissappearing.

The Fall was coming, waiting.
For Summer to leave.
Gently helping
by dousing the trees with kerosene
and it dropped the match,
while i was pleading, begging
for Summer to stay.

But the fire had started,
the leaves began combusting
and i could do nothing
but let the world be set ablaze.
The green melted into
golds and oranges.
Reds and browns.

And i was left
with falling leaves
and a promise
that Summer would come again.

What is the hardest part
                    Of being alone?
It's the quietness,
A stillness making
What ought have been a home-
a house.
It's filled with beds,
But those lover's nests
Are             Empty.
And the thought is
As occupying as a dream.
A dream you cannot feel
Because the loneliness is keeping you awake

With no one to hold down your fears
         And keep you safe.

I’m not a poet,
But a painter.
I paint pictures with my words
That Rembrandt could not.

I’m not a poet,
But a singer.
I sing out my heart on paper
So my voice is silent but not my words

I’m not a poet,
But an actor.
The paper is my scene
And the manus is written with my tears

I’m not an artist,
But you.
The side of you you never knew,
So I’ll have to wake you up.

she sits and she stares
as the sun burns the sky
as her throat burns with
tears she refuses to shed
she's alone as the clocks tick
with those all around her asleep

she sits and she sips
from a cup on the bookshelf
content to pretend
she has it under control
but she doesn't
you can see it
in the heave of her chest
in the twitch of her fingers

her mouth says she's happy
it has her convinced that she
can continue to live as she is
caught up in being better
forgetting how to simply just be

the hollow ache in her chest tells
a different story, but only to her
she's begging for love, to love
and be loved as much as she can
because she's sure she doesn't
deserve any love at all

she sits and she stares
and she types and she cries
and she dreams and she aches
and she closes the window
and the streetlights come on
and she convinces herself
she's not lonely

oh no, she's not lonely at all

she sits and she stares
as her life flashes by
backlit by the soft blue
glow of a television
she's alone at dinnertime
determined to wait out her hunger

she sits and she sips
from a glass on the table
content to pretend
that she's not lonely
but she is
you can see it
in the set of her shoulders
the sigh in her chest

her mouth says she's happy
and it has her convinced
that he's all she needs
and all she ever will need

but the hollow beats of her heart
are begging for love
to come fill the space she's created
by pushing everyone else away

she sits and she stares
and she thinks and she dreams
and she laughs and she cries
and she switches the channels
and the streetlights come on
and she convinces herself that
she's not lonely

oh no, she's not lonely at all

They say she was beautiful
And they regret the past tense
In which they speak
They say she was beautiful
And I try to remember
If it’s the truth
They say she was beautiful
That she was beautiful
Until she was no longer anything at all
And now I am here
And I cannot fill her place
For she walked in the sun
And the light burns my skin
And she danced on the wind
But I cannot fly
And she sang to the stars
But I have no voice
For I am just the broken home
In which she used to live
I am nothing but a shell
Empty
Because she is gone
They say she was beautiful
But now she is dead
And I am all that is left

I know you, yet you don't really know me.

I am always here , whenever you need me.

Deep down, I am, a part of you.

Connected; to a twin soul.

Want to take you away with me.
just us; alone.
To a secret place inside my heart.
Deep down close to my soul.

Want to spend an endless day getting back to knowing you.

Please hush now...
everything will work out fine.

Peaceful Transitions----
is all we have now.
Great to learn how to see in different aspects.

kicking lonely through the autumn leaves
you wondering how life came to this.

but we're all still here,
like everything you miss:

the moment, the moon, the mirthful child's bliss.

staring like strangers who swear they knew,  
sitting on benches while shadows grew,
rising up towards the night's debut,
moving like moths near the light of you.