When I was sketching this afternoon,
my strokes seemed unsure
and my lines were all wrong and
I realized some things about you.

The reason your fingers
always seem to be slipping
every time you try to catch a
handful of waterfall
is because once upon a time
the rocks that your soles were planted on
crumbled.

You used to be a deer,
the way you stood on new heights
and how you looked on
with a steady eye, so
when was it that you decided
one more step was too much for you to climb?

The burying must stop.
It has been proven time and time again
that no matter
how deep a grave is dug,
the flowers will give the bones away.

I don't understand why you
confuse seawater with fresh, because
I know that you've already stuck out your tongue
and tasted the sweetness of real freshwater
or have you?

You are dust
walking in deep shadows
where I cannot find you.
I have only a candle
and my words, but I will wait.
After all, in the beginning,
something beautiful was made from dust
and from a word
sprung a world.

And lastly I realized that
I hope that you someday read this poem
and we will sit together in the afternoon sun
and you will listen to the sound of new things
as I sketch with sure strokes
and just the right lines.

January 4th, 2013.
Her heart beats steadily, like the thumping rhythm of a drum. It always comforts me, when she lays her chest against mine and the steady thump thump fills my mind.
She has a super power, a way of telling when I'm distressed or angry or sad. She is my sun, in a world of rain. She's a special flower.

July 18, 2013.
I have seen subtle changes in my rose. She is not the radiant, ball of sunshine she used to be. Her eyes are sad, and her skin pale. I know she is keeping things from me, but I can not tell what they are. I won't force her to say anything, she will tell me when the time is right.

September 27th, 2014.
She sent me a letter.
Something was wrong.
I immediately rushed over to her home, worried sick about her. The letter was not like her. I didn't bother knocking, my anxiety overpowering any of my common sense.
I burst into her door, and stopped dead in my tracks. She hung from the ceiling, dangling by a rope around her neck. She appeared as she could've been asleep, if not for the unnatural way her neck was bent. The rosy glow from her cheeks was gone, and all I saw was the way her eyes stared, eerily into the darkness.
I don't remember anything else, but hearing the thump as my knees hit the floor, and the thump of my head.

??????
I do not know the date, the time, or even the year. I have not eaten in three days. My grief has swallowed me, making me feel like a tiny krill in the vast ocean.
My mind constantly hounds me about her death. I should've known something was wrong. Why didn't I know something was wrong?
With each thump thump of my heart, I sunk into a deeper and deeper depression. She deserves to be here. I don't.

??????
This is my last entry.
I am so, so glad that I can finally escape this misery of a life.
It sounds like music to my ears.
The click of the gun.
And the last thump thump of my empty heart.

He could never love me, I will never have his heart
no matter how much i'll try and try, we'll always be apart

He could never touch me, the way i'd only ever dreamed
with his warmth against my skin
i've felt it once or twice before
and been hoping for evermore

He could never see me, the way i've always seen him
for he has long decided that i'm not enough for him

He could never love me,but i will never quit,
for i will try until he's mine, even if i already know
that i will fail, but i want it back, to where we were at

For i would carry all my fears,a thousand miles, a million ways,
a thousand more, for a million days
to hear his voice his, to see his precious face
i'd come all this way

Just to THINK he is mine,for once in my mind
I'd still go, even though i already know
he could NEVER love me.

I was raised
on the ways of
the Wolf.
I applied these ways
to the best of
my ability.
Only to be set
loose to live amongst
the sheep.
Where
my ways were
considered savage
and unreasonable.

I turned to
the Poppy
and the *****.
I was insearch
of a temporary
sanctuary from
the  past misdeeds
replaying
themselves
inside my head.

Only at a later
age did I come
to understand
these wounds
that still
bleed leave
trails full of
wasted years,
lost lovers and
forgotten
hopes
and dreams.

I counted the
Black and Whites
as they passed
me by.
I tried to
melt into the
crowd.
The vigilance
and anger in
my heart refused
to walk amongst
the live stock.
For I was raised
as one with
brother Wolf.
I needed to
run on the outside
of their
invisible bindings.

I died everyday
for 3 years .
I pulled
from the *****
then turned to
the poem and
discovered
a new way
to torture
my  mind while
healing the heart.

I dropped
the mask I
had wore
for so many
of these
theatrical
years.

I set about
revealing hearts
blood and fractured
bone.
I ripped the
inside of
me out and
presented it
as treasure.
Only to find
the masses
are indeed
too much
like sheep.
Never
understanding the
manners of
the wolf....