I guess you could have called it poetic how by the age of 16 I had no recollection of what happiness tasted like on my tongue, but yet new well the taste of sorrow. Some might say it was poetic and tragically beautiful.
It was not poetic, nor was it beautiful, but it was tragic. It was so very, very sad, and that sadness has only expanded now that I’ve grown to see others seek glory in sorrow.
The sorrow of another is never glorious, never something to seek, unless to alleviate the source. Sorrow is not strength. It is a lump of hot iron in your chest that burns you from the inside out, and it is sour and harsh and repulsive to taste.
And yet still I have no right to think that the sorrow of another is anything other than tragic, or any less so than my own. Though it is human, it is not nature, your sorrow is your own, and belongs to no other.
Sorrow is like an abandoned building, empty and lifeless, resigned to a fate it does not know.
People never seem to pay much attention to abandoned buildings though,
until they become one.

Out of the wind you visit me,
With the rain of being,
Still fresh on your clothes.
I ask where have you been?
You say: Hidden deep in a haze,  
Of swordtail and swallows,
Living at ease as we did,
When last, we once parted,
Laughing wild as emerald fire,
Leapt cosmic from our *******,
As blue dogs danced madly,
At our capricious request.
How grey our thin hair,
has grown since then!
If you follow me now,
I’ll I enchant you again!

I am discontent,
and could wait until the feeling,
Becomes a haunting memory,
But I am at this moment,
Already wavering,
In my eminent need to relent.
What by nature,
Is most gracefully remote,
Transforms to bitterness,
With my distant gazing.
I turn my weary head,
to ask the passing gleam,
But the sidewalk scene,
Has grown hollow to me.

To the antiquated assembly,
of so-called leaders,
In this, the modern world.
I say go forth and pray,
For a healing rain,
To cleanse and disperse,
the blight of corruption,
Rooted fast and deep,
in the soil of ignorance.
And soak the mind's field,
For the best of living beings,
There where good grasses,
Now struggle to grow.

I see you,
Shaking your flowers at me
with open invitation,
Then dancing away,
Deliciously trampling the grass,
Beneath your naked toes.

Let be,
My dreams that shiver under your breath,
You have the rest of the world to breathe on,
Do not tease me and prance away looking back,
I am too weary to play with you,
Let us instead make slow love,
Here in the tall grass.