She did not think she had any shine
as she slumped in the corner,
he had chosen not to love her once again.

No words could mend her pain,
the ache wrapped its way around her body -
seeping into her bloodflow,
Poisoning all the love.

I took her by the hand, to drag her down with me,
Deep down through my darkness,
to the pit of misery

and there she saw the light, the flicker of an ember which gave way to the dark -
*"there's your shine, I kept it hidden, to light the way through my dark"

"Mommy, there is a man in my closet,
And I don't like the way he stares
With eyes so cold and blue
Nothing but evil in his glare.

Mommy, he only likes to come out
So late into the night
That I can't be sure if this is a dream
Or an extension of real life!

Mommy, every time you go away
That's when this closet ghoul
Likes to come out and play -

He whispers secrets through the air
All things that I can't quite hear,
But I know the noise is there.

Mommy, there is a man in my closet,
And I can't help but be quite scared!"

at the very core of my being
is all the scars only a trained eye could see -
what of beauty without misery?

Faded scars and a broken being
lead way to a nonchalant
way of seeing - or existing.

the root of scars,
the root of pain,
the root of endless misery

a pathetic quest for beauty,
but what even is beauty to me?

when I was a child, no older than six or seven
every week my father would bring me on an adventure,
each week we would travel not too far away
to the locals woods - hours of fun and games.

Each week while exploring
meandering through weather beaten trees
my father would teach me
to be kind to the leaves.

I was not to displace the way nature
had created such fine art,
nor was I to anger
if rain were to start -

I would not cry if the roots tripped me up
because they were a beautiful design,
and where there is beauty
there is life.

While exploring all the nooks
of the endless forests
I would learn to not disturb
the animals who slept

nor would I carve initials
into the old oak trees,
or take home its offering
as cheap souvenirs.

each week there would come
the time when we must leave
and our ritual would commence
with the hugging of trees.

Ad hoc decisions about living or dying
Are stealing you away from the truth,
Because once you're dead, you're dead darling.

I can't remember the last time I wrote,
because I have nothing to write about,
no words seem enough, and my thoughts are too little.

My words dried up, as you went away
at first I wrote of how I loved you,
and later of how I hated you,
then of the emptiness I had inside
consuming me, like a beast from a children's story.

Now I only have a few short words that I have to say,
I really really miss you, and I find it strange.