talk about restless;
minutely i change my mind
make plans,
change them,
forget about them,
and make more plans.
blend them together
now pull them apart.

i do the same with my looks
and my words
and my thoughts...
that's the scary part;
for a girl so restless,
you sure make me wanna stay.

Freeborn ?
Nay ! Born in *******
to the wiles of life
in ways we need to understand .

Only rebel
against the iniquities we bear
as scars across our mental backs .

Freedom is at best
a dream that's dreamed
in the solitude
of howling winds
"as the times they are a'changing"
but never really does

I wrote a letter to a cliff
Because I know how it is to be the edge of the earth
It's ingrained in my mind always from experience
How one more step can lead to a fall
How one more step....
I wrote a letter a cliff and sent it via the wind

I sang a song to a mountain
Because I know how it is to rise above the world
A monument standing tall amidst the valleys
How one more step can lead to a peak
How one more step.....
I sang a song to a mountain and played it on the wind

A wrote a poem for the sky
Because I know how it is to feel endless
And then have the clouds encroach in a threatening way
How one more step through thunder and lightning
Just one more step.....
I wrote a poem for the sky on the air that I breath

Just one more step
Can lead to a peak
Can lead to a fall
A step in the rain
Can lead me to home

Poor little fly
Fighting just to survive
No one saw it's demise but me
As he struggled not to freeze
First he flew in little hops
But to soon that stops
Then he walked in endless circles in the Sun's rays
But soon that too gave way
Now he lays frozen stiff
I wonder if me seeing made a diff
That this little flys last moments on earth
Didn't go unnoticed, and to a little poem had given birth

This poor little fly's fight
Is a lot like my own sad sight
Wonder if anyone sees my slow decent
How this life is leaving me bent
Wonder if when I finally freeze and die
Will anyone notice and wonder why
Or see how I fought to survive
Just like that little fly

If you're ever on the riverside
where the sun beats your head
you would see the old man
selling hats of palm leaf
but you care not to notice him
having already smelled the sea
and too keen to cross the river
travel southward on the island
till the saline wind scalds your eyes
your skins itch to jump into the waves
yet the man with the palm leaf hats
would not cease to tell you
how burning would be the sun on the sands
and so badly you need to protect the head
by parting bucks that mean nothing to you
but a world to the mouths he feeds
and before you stamp on him a final no
she has one atop her hair
beneath which her eyes flutter like butterflies
her sun rouged cheeks untimely blush
and two born anew lovers
merrily head for the sea
having bought romance
for forty bucks.

this poem
is not about you

even though
your spirit is in every word
your voice sounds strong
in the halls of my mind
telling me things
I am now sure
I want to know

this poem is
about me

trying to understand
you