My favorite part, before the white falls, is the second the frost covers it all

My favorite part, before crimson rises is the second before you feel the sting

My favorite part, before the grey comes, is the second the sky is still blue free of clouds

My favorite part, before you say you love me, is the look of passion that fills your eyes

My favorite part, before I wake, is feeling the rays of yellow fill the room

I like the moments before action happens,

******* society
For making people believe
That there is a certain way to live and breath
Everyone is the same, there is no variety
You outcast those for rioting
And living their life defiantly
What gives you the right to judge me
You are not god almighty
You are the reason for my anxiety
And loss of sobriety
And visits to the psychiatry
But I stand in protest finally
I will no longer sit quietly
And let you decide unjustifiably
What I should be

Your judgment makes people feel insecure
Why do you believe that everyone has to be similar
Why don't you understand that no one is perfect
Why do I have to conform to your culture to earn respect
Why is money the only way to achieve success
Every person lives just like the next
This makes me feel so depressed

*******, I chose to be unique
I refuse to live a life that's boring and bleak
My life does not need to be critiqued
Your approval will not bring relief

Happiness is key
I will live happy and free

Down to the deep south
I trudge
down through the snow
with the pink,
pink clouds
scattering their
effervescence 
over spangled, darkened
farms and hay bales.
Across early orange
styles and frosted
footprints, into
fielded horizons.

I may not be Walt Whitman or William Wordsworth or Robert Frost. But I am human and just as Whitman and Wordsworth and Frost wrote, so too can I write.

So too can I share with strangers words that express my humanness because even if I'm not famous, I feel, I see, I hear, I simply exist.

Isn't that what poetry does?
Reminds us that we all experience this world similarly,
We all grieve,
We all seek,
We all love,
We all want,
We all cry,
We all wonder,
We all simply exist.

And that is enough for me to write, for you to write, and even if we don't get recognition,
It's about conveying this notion of existing.

The bus will rattle then slowly in the yard. And made dust  and dropped stove lenght and sticks on wood. Sweet scented stuff When the breeze drew across it.

I spent today
At Greenfield Village,
It's a living history.
The very buildings
Grand ones knew,
Re-constructed tenderly.
I entered Robert Frost's real home,
Under the shadow of his window tree.
I heard his true voice reciting,
"The Road Not Taken."
And I was taken,
Because of all he's meant to me.
I could have heard him on the Net,
But being there
Made all the difference for me.