There lived an old woman
In a tumbled old cottage
In the midst of the silent wood.
She kept figurines
And the most peculiar things
In her little old cottage in the wood.

Her vases were chipped
Her tapestries ripped
And her silverware bent like her back,
But beautiful was she
And her beloved oddities
In that little old cottage in the wood.

in the wind
the blood bright red
poppies dance and bow
the bee's bustle and hustle,
from one black hearted flower
to another, little engines
revving away, as they gather
the pollen count for the day's quota
the sound is like a conversation
you can't quite hear, as you
struggle to remain asleep
on a drowsy summer sunday morning

a comforting whisper with some
notes of anxiety, the sort of conversation
that precedes  a breakfast in bed made
by child and husband, one that comes
with best intentions, tepid tea, cold eggs
and slightly singed toast, sans jam
a breakfast that you eat smilingly,
knowing, the love that flavours it
a breakfast you eat whilst watching
poppies dance and bumblebee's bustle

I'm not yours.
I don't belong to you.
Even if we were together
we're not two.
It's not here to please you.
It's here to please me.
I'd rather kick
back
drink a martini
And relax than pursue something
with you.
I have things to do.
And not enough things to say.
to you.
I got work to do
And while you got me feeling loose
I can't pursue
Feelings are fading fast
cause I know this ain't gonna last.
Your too **** passive aggressive
and I'm so past that.
Because I'm not ok with that.
I've tried to rationalize it a hundred times
And it never feels right.
****** semi consciously
over and over again.
I can't stand it.
I won't tolerate it
or accept it.
Because truth is
I'm over it.
I'm exhausted.
Feeling like I gotta play
this game where I have no stake
never make a mistake
it doesn't make sense.
All it does is nag my conscience.

Saying no is starting to
feel a lot like saying yes.
Not gonna apologize
for being a knife to your chest.
Truth is I tried my very best,
but your just not for me.
And I really gotta leave.

A stream and pool, a gentle rain,
The smell of soaking wooded dirt
The feel of slowly cooling air in misty Summer as the gravel crunches beneath the weight of all the hopes and dreams of right now.
A distant call to wonder, a closer call to wander and a hill that hides a long walk back before the night claims victory
Mossy ponds, trails crossing trails and barbed wire blockades that shield from neighborly attack
The low call of bullfrogs and the bickering of birds, all dazzeling and swirling into a great sky of lightly dripping treetops

This beautful force of green and brown and rust and blue and quiet stillness and nature's obedience is everything that will ever matter as far as anyone can tell.