Autumn moonlight--
  a worm digs silently
    into the chestnut.

Afterlife

They came
Men with sharp axes
chopped down
the old oak.
It's shadow
stood there
out of habit.
At sundown
it disappeared.

Mkay so I cant spel,
sue me wat the hel!
Mown like an old gramar
who is stuk in payamas.

Jus leev me an let me be three

>:(

No one mourns the glory of the sky,
with its play of light and air and water,
that it is forever transforming from what it is
into what it is.
Indeed, it makes no sense to gaze longingly at a rose,
Grieving the inevitable falling of its petals.
No one fears the crashing of the waves,
Nor the melting of the snow,
Nor the setting of the sun,
Nor the passing of the breeze.

It only makes sense to not fear the Changes.

When you are so afraid of losing what you had,
the tenderness, the passion, the side-long glances, and the knowing smiles from the one who understands,
When you are so afraid of what is happening,
the confusion and aggravation, the sorrow and anger,
Every minor attackable issue exploited for a moment of attention and consolation,
You are only breaking yourself into pieces,
unrecognizable and infuriating,
down, into that ever-darkening spiral.

You are only digging your nails into your own forearms;
You are only darkening your own mind,
pulling grey clouds over yourself
when you are grasping and groping
to push them away,
falsely assuming there are any clouds at all.

We bandage our tender hearts with cast iron strips,
constricting the blood flow to our faces,
pale skin with a waining zest for life.

There is an extra shelf in our closets for home-made masks,
the masks are poorly made
and our true pale skin can be easily seen
through the cracks in our bright coloured ornaments.

It's a **** shame about our cut up hearts.
If they could heal instead of hide,
then dreamers would be the true world changers,
and love would be a possibility for us all.

But our cynacism imprisons our weak minds
in dungeons of hopelessness and pretentiousness.
Our talk traps us through regurgitated drivel,
we talk **** with loud uttering
as if our **** holds in it the secrets of the universe.
Yet in the mean time-
the very words we think will protect us from this wild wild world
expose us as fools and make us soft tarkets-
propelling us further into loneliness.

At least we live in the delusion that we are now all grown up.

There are periods that need to be put at the end of sentences that started with a thought, rambled onto paragraphs that branched into multiple ambitious topics that was then  left hanging in jumbled confusion half-way through time. In the endless strings of unecessary conjunctions, painful careless adjectives, and inappropriate prepositions, a simple period, used at the end of a completed, sensible sentence, one in which you put an effort to complete, regardless of the distracting pauses of time...a perfect period like that could go a long, long way. It ends THAT sentence so that another, more mature, wiser, more sensible one that could  bring forth beautiful thoughts in endless paragraphs, could then begin.

Such is the language of life.
Such is the power of a period.
It is called closure.
Sometimes, we should use more periods in our lives,
to make our sentences clear.
Yes.
Period.