When the soul leaves the body,
where does it go?

Does it fly up to heaven,
being with everyone that it has ever held dear,
relax in a place of paradise?

Does is cross the great plains of this Earth,
seeing all it has missed in it's life,
watching whom it loves from above?

Does it go on a grate adventure,
solving puzzles,
fulfilling a quest?

Does it fill another,
as the last breath from its body fades,
it is breathed in by a childs first?

I can not believe that our adventure can end so abruptly,
I think that there are still stories to be told,
and pages to write.

However,
if there is not,
then I just want mine to be a book worth reading.

A community,
one that takes you in,
and holds you,
and tells you too keep going.

How can we let these words,
that flow from the heart,
be out in public?

When you know people are reading your poems,
who is reading your poems,
can you really let yourself write freely?

When you need to write about your pain,
but the one who is hurting you most is following you,
how can you make it public?

I don't always want to talk about my feelings,
but I want to write about them,
and I want them to be known,
just not by all.

I love the critics,
and the comments,
and the like,
it's the views that scare me.

How selfish you are
To make the decision
That I am not enough
For what you envision

And how hopeful I was
That this division
Between you and I
Was just a transition

How noble you thought
That your definition
Of love and lost
Begins with repetition

And how dumb I must be
To give my permission
Letting you back in
To start the ignition

When the sun rises with my mind
My heart reaches out
To the people
To the places
I cherish, I trust

In joy I am awake
Fingers grasping
Heart beating as the bird’s
I could fly with
If I tried

Alone in bed
In happiness I can’t contest
With book or brush
To balance the lightness of my stomach
With the calm of my soul

Still I know, with the sides of my eye
with the back of my mind
that in the corner
By the sill, by the door is perched
Plastic coated ink
Agent of our ends

Waits for the day to end
Waits for the joy to shuffle off
The moths to settle on
Waits for the sun to set

And on the moon rise of my soul
I fumble, peace spills out to the floor
and blinded in the dusk
Ink and plastic caught in hand
Gives me air as I begin to drown

Pens are for the night
Poetry for misery

And won’t you tell me
If you decide you’ve weathered one crack
Too many, after all this time
Don’t you know that I have tape
Or glue if you’d prefer
Though perhaps that won’t help
I know it’s still too much to ask
That I could be all you need and
I know it isn’t your choice
That the splits won’t stay closed
Despite my glue and my passion
I spit out the wrong thing and it’s no stronger
Than a post-it note, just too old that
Wont
Quite
Hold

But I have glue
Or tape if you’d prefer
Though I think you grow tired of me
Pretending that it’s sticking
And even worse that I want you
To pretend with me.

I wonder if I keep restocking
For your sake or for mine
Do I think one day I’ll find the one
That will hold like cement
Maybe think I’ll coat you in thick resin
A case of clear fiberglass that won’t chip
Won’t crack and you’ll be safe forever
Or do I hope only that you believe I will
That you only turn to me
Is it monopoly I seek?
Or absolution.

Some days I want to be surrounded,
by people,
and noises,
and new views.

Some days though,
I find myself most content,
with myself.