OK
So you're
Telling me
You're mad

Cause she
Kissed the
Guy you
Like

Well wait
A minute
We can't

Kiss any
guys (Without
your consent)

But you
Can kiss
anyone you
Like

No matter
Who else
Likes him

Wait a
Minute, I
Like this
Guy too

I'm not
Mad, just
A little
Sad

So why
Are you
So angry
At this

Other girl
Your friend
Cause all
Is fair

In love
and war
I have
Feelings too

I like
The guy
You now
Like

And you're
Gonna kiss
Him.
Still.

Did you
Ever think
That might
Hurt me

Like she
Hurt you
When she
Kissed him

Wait a minute.
That's not right.

I gave you the most
Fragile parts of me
And asked that you
Handle them with care
Because what is
Broken can't always
Be repaired.

There is a Reaper whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

“Shall I have nought that is fair?” saith he;
“Have nought but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again.”

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He kissed their drooping leaves;
It was for the Lord of Paradise
He bound them in his sheaves.

“My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,”
The Reaper said, and smiled;
“Dear tokens of the earth are they,
Where he was once a child.

“They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,
And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear.”

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love;
She knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day;
’Twas an angel visited the green earth,
And took the flowers away.

My poem may be yours indeed
In melody and tone,
If in its rhythm you can read
A music of your own;
If in its pale woof you can weave
Your lovelier design,
'Twill make my lyric, I believe,
More yours than mine.

I'm but a prompter at the best;
Crude cues are all I give.
In simple stanzas I suggest -
'Tis you who make them live.
My bit of rhyme is but a frame,
And if my lines you quote,
I think, although they bear my name,
'Tis you who wrote.

Yours is the beauty that you see
In any words I sing;
The magic and the melody
'Tis you, dear friend, who bring.
Yea, by the glory and the gleam,
The loveliness that lures
Your thought to starry heights of dream,
The poem's yours.

Crashing waves
The steady wind
Chirping birds
The wind chimes on our old porch
Sounds of thunder rolling into our small town
The most beautiful noises I can think of.
These are the sounds I hear when I close my eyes.

One sound is missing however.
*I can no longer hear your voice

Through trials, tribulation and
Never ending doubt and hesitation
There is a voice of determination,
Whispering in your ear, keep going
And you did

Fighting against all odds
Knowing death may come
But there is a bit of happiness
Knowing that they were doing the right thing
They sacrificed, but made it

I brushed off the nervousness
And put on a strong expression
Hope lost in my eyes,
But not in my soul
And I got up.