Running makes me obscure
like the lone wind on a shallow shore
limbs rumbling
heart clenching
I feel alive.
.
.
.
Mehek

Fear stricken
Lungs ridden
Here we stand
Forever stuck in this shallow abyss
~ mehek

There's a shallow darkness over our minds
That paves the lights like sheer blinds
for the quench of love in our broken souls
There's a fear seeping deep inside our veins
That's often too scared to care
too scarred to share
Sometimes all we need is someone to pull us out from the past
And a little time
to fill up the spaces in our minds.

~mehek

~

I just wanted silence.
Is that so hard to hear?
They misunderstood.
I didn't want them to disappear.

Are you so lost,
In your decadent flowers,
That you can't see a thing
Going on around us?

I can't fix things.
Things that aren't broken.
I wish I was drunk on rain,
I like it better than oxygen.

Are your roots so small,
That you can't even gather,
What little that's left
Of all of the water?

A drunk man's words
Are sober thoughts.
But a drunk tree's words
Say more than a lot.

You hide behind your leaves,
And those twisted vines.
Trying to look pretty.
Yelling that you're fine.

I've got terms and conditions.
Ones not so hard to follow.
Just be a lot quieter,
In your misery, you shall wallow.

But you need water.
You need care.
Otherwise, you won't grow
And you'll die right there.

You can share my apples,
But know this,
I may grow apples,
But I like oranges.

~

so in my spare time
after a days studying
i stand on the pulpit
and talk to an empty room
shouting into the corners all the words i have written for people
who are not listening

like therapy i record these speeches
and play them back to remind me of the flow
of words
that could fill chalkboards whiteboards and lecture notebooks
but carry no weight

sometimes pray that the room is being captured
so someone can tell me to go
or perhaps the security guard finds some satisfaction
in seeing a heart unable to say no

I’m sorry my love
But it has to be done
The clouds have moved in
I’m no longer your sun
My heart is aching
At the thought of what was
My will is breaking
...
I’ve just had enough

A lone tree languished
In the world’s oldest
Forest
It being the first
Tree whose branches
Had been butchered for a book
Creating clean, crisp, pages
And how the tree moaned
It’s voice infecting the wind
Howling throughout the night
And lingering on into the day
Causing the others trees to shun it
They were content to merely sway
In the breeze
Or basking in high noon
Concerned with nurturing
Their own nutrients,
Their sap preserving their old ways
Until the first library
First bookstore
First College
Came to claim them all