A man went for a walk one day. He seemed to be searching for something as he hurried about, "Just a rock covered in dirt nothing special he says while he walks away".
  A little girl walking down the same path carefully inspects each rock
  She examines each one and than picks up the same rock that the man
  had rejected.
  She holds it in her hands lifts it up toward the sun and says," you may not look like much outside , but I have a feeling that your true worth lies within you".
She excitedly skips down the path and brings it home and proudly presents the rock to her father.
He carefully takes the rock and breaks it open and discovers the treasure that lies within, a geode that is sparkling like diamonds in the light.
In life people at times are too quick to judge according to appearances alone. They hurry through life seem to be searching for something but not taking time to discover what life has to offer us through one another. They might even perceive that another person is like dirt,and with that misconception they miss out in discovering another's true worth.
Upon closer examination they might discover that the other person has many great qualities and can become a treasured friend.
If only they would slow down and take the time to take a closer look so that they don't miss the hidden treasure that lies within.

My heart is a plaything
On a length of tattered string,
Batted at by paws
With unrestrained claws.

Dreamily over the roofs
The cold spring rain is falling,
Out in the lonely tree
A bird is calling, calling.

Slowly over the earth
The wings of night are falling;
My heart like the bird in the tree
Is calling, calling, calling.

Feelings of anguish and despair
This vicious cycle has me ensnared
Butcher my heart to pieces
This confirming my thesis
That nobody will care
I'll cause no commotion
Not any emotion
Without a thought
Quickly forgot
Floating breathlessly in the ocean

Poetry is just taking

Fear
Pain
And anger
And forcing it into words

Poetry is simply taking

Sadness
Depression
And anxiety
And giving it rhythm

Poetry is merely taking

Worry
Love
And broken hearts
And making it a pattern

Poetry is taking these things
And writing it in blood
Pouring your heart out
And giving them life

One day, you'll awaken,
with blood shot eyes,
scratching at a five o'clock shadow,
even though it's seven o'clock
in the morning, and
wonder where it all went wrong. Where she all went wrong.

When the arches of her feet stopped
tiptoeing across the room
to kiss you good morning.
When the parallels of her calves
started making diagonals
when laying on the bed.
When the crook of her elbows
no longer wrapped around you
like the beautiful ribbon on the present you gave to her last Christmas.

Do you even know where that present is?
It's there,
up there on the shelf collecting dust
along with all the "I love yous"
and other promises that you stash away for cold winters nights,
when you crave her warmth,
and long to feel the chill of her sapphire-painted fingernails.

But somewhere between the cicadas of summer and the apples of autumn, you lost her along the way.
You lost the way her hair finds its way onto every surface of your house.
You can't find the way her nose wrinkles when she laughs,
even if you turn over all the couch cushions,
and look under the rug.

You check your file cabinets for the way her chest heaves when she sleeps,
and check in the pantry for the memories of her propped up on her elbows,
looking out the window sill at the rain,

But all that's left are phantoms of her amber scent,
and ghost-smiles that have all but gone stale.