It was in the park.
When I saw the scarf whirling in the wind,
The elegance in its movement was inspiring,
When the sun hit the cloth,
It twinkled under it's rays.
I continued my stroll in the brisk winter air,
Wondering about the poor soul with no scarf to keep warm.
It was then - when that thought crossed my mind - I saw a pair of mittens sitting on a bench.
Unlike the scarf, the mittens were rooted to the bench on which they lay.
A light coat of ice encased the mittens,
When the sun hit just right,
It twinkled under it's rays.
I continued my stroll in the brisk winter air,
Wondering about the poor soul with no mittens to keep warm.
It was then - when that thought crossed my mind - I saw a jacket hanging in a tree.
It looked as if a body still haunted it, because it waved furiously at me,
Probably hoping I could help it down.
The jacket gave up waving to me when it realized there was no way I was going to be its savior, but
When the sun hit the jacket,
It twinkled under it's rays.
I continued my stroll in the brisk winter air,
Wondering about the poor soul with no jacket to keep warm.
It was then - when that thought crossed my mind - I saw a blanket, with a man and women upon it.
And when the sun hit the eyes of the man,
They twinkled under it's rays.
And I realized, there was no poor soul without material to keep him warm,
There was a lucky soul, with a human being to keep him warm.

.                                      

                        ­                 How is it that                            when you need
                                   something - anything -           from me, I run franticly
                              to your side to aid your desires...But when I just ask for a
                               little compassion, a little distraction, a little satisfaction.
                                You look right through my pleading eyes to the person
                                    behind me and seductively say, "Hey, could you do
                                        me a favor?" And that's when I melt inside. I feel
                                          misused, abused and yet I can't wait until I'm
                                               reused. Because I believe that next time,
                                                    will be the last time, the final time
                                                          when you realize that I might
                                                           ­  not come running. Instead
                                                         ­        I'll be waiting for you
                                                             ­       to miss me by your
                                                            ­           side - like I miss
                                                            ­               being there.
                                                          ­                   *Someday

When the aqua blue fades into a bubble gum pink,
They make a satin violet that dazzles the evening sky.
And as the sun goes down, it kisses the clouds,
Leaving a trace of amber lipstick around its edges.
The sun melts into the horizon, spilling it's liquid gold everywhere.
It scrambles to pick up the beautiful mess it's created.
But it knows time is running out,
Before it is invaded with the purest black.
And like a curtain that has been drawn one to many,
Light shows through the tattered cloth,
Shining.

It slinks across the emerald turf early in the morning,
Silently, fluidly.
Barely visible like a gust of wind.
The sky grows dark,
and fills the infinite horizon with dread.
As tears fall from the heavens,
They hit the hard surfaces of the cold, bitter stones.
They are deathly pale and as bloodless as a coma patient.
The stones crumble underneath the weight of a woman.
Fog rolls in,
Surrounding it's oblivious victim.
Empty eyes look around feeling the sense of the approaching omen.
Suffocating in the smoke,
She draws one final breath.
And in the exhale,
A stream of gray slithers out of her soulless body.

He seems obvious to the note passing,
To the eyes spying and the paper ***** flying.
He sits at his desk with a meek expression upon his face,
Not quite staring into space, but a place.
I can tell by this clean features and his put-together attire,
That he acquires to be in a position higher with such desire.
That he's dreaming of a place that doesn't require baby-sitting hormonally deranged teenagers,
It's a place where maybe he's a manager or somewhere fighting potential danger,
The bell rings above his head which shakes him back to the present time,
He adjusts his jacket and looks around like he committed a crime, then he smiles goodbye to his students like they were piles of grime.
I creep up to his desk and tell him,
It's not that grim, remember, the glass is full to the brim.

It's nights like these,
Where I wish you were here to hear my thoughts,
     Instead
                   Of
                        These
                                   Blank
                                              Pages.

How lucky of the
Fork to have touched his lips,
I wish it was me.