When a flower rises
By the bloom of our emotions
Quickly withers away
The momentary illusion
Like a passing of the leaves
You came and then went away
For the pain of your emotions
Was simply too hard to bear
It doesn't hold a meaning
It doesn't hold a stake
As the bloom of the flower
Was simply, just a flake

Devastation

Noun

I Inspecting the wreckage,they say it’s a good thing you weren’t there, that you didn’t suffer. You bite your tongue. They do not know what good is.This is not it.


II  You feel free. You know you shouldn’t, that it’s wrong. You smile anyway.


III You suddenly feel like you are drowning and no one is noticing. You cover your face and begin to cry.

We are just words that sing upon the page,

                                       but some never touch.
Singing in our thoughts.

Repetitive and with meaning, but never
                       do we write a word for us to cling too.


Always humming that repetitive metaphorical tune,
                          that  completes a hum down the line
                                  to a verbose culmination


and we still hum it even now further down the line.

Here I sit at a desk that was once my mother’s,
Now papered with little yellow sticky notes.
Perhaps at one time it was neat and tidy, the way my mother is,
But now it’s a constellation of my wandering thoughts,
And things I must remember to do.

Clinging on to each other with all their might,
Little golden papers inscribed with various shades of ink,
At any moment, one may fall to the ground, like an oak leaf in a September breeze,
Finally letting go of its branch and swimming to the ground with a sigh,
To be swept away and forgotten.

Perhaps that little paper held a word I liked,
Or some mundane task that now I’ll never remember to do,
Perhaps it was a lyric, a fragment of a song I heard and found memorable,
A perfect little collection of words strung together like lace,
Leaving an empty space in the yellow foliage.

Here I sit at a desk that was once my mother’s,
That is now papered with small yellow sticky notes,
Thinking that there’s beauty in the way things are, a sort of cadence to the rhythm of everything,
Searching for the meaning of life in a cluster of yellow sticky notes,
Included in a list of chores, or written between the words of a love song.

It's sink or swim
till the words pour in.

Nothing becomes everything
beneath the mighty pen.

And a smile on your face
is worth the pages and the waste.

But, I won't walk you through it,
I'll just get you to the door.

let me tell you a story
a story across the beginning of time
i saw a broken piece along the way
people passed by day after day
nobody ever asked why she was broken
nobody gave her a helping hand
but i was intrigued
i wanted to know why she was shattered
but still held together
so i walked the distance
i said some words, asked her name
and she was LOVE,
i asked why was she broken
why was she alone in pieces of her former self
she said to me
i have lived from the passing of time
felt happiness, felt pain,
felt immense sadness—
but most of all it's the blame
the words people whisper in their hearts
saying; love is useless,
LOVE is a waste of time
centuries after centuries
i began to fade out
shattering little by little
till the piece you see before you—
she was truly who she was
she was a wreck made by us
blaming her for our mistakes,
maybe why real love is rare
so i said my welfare
knowing true love will never exist again

Another night
i lay to rest
With all these words
But what a test

Find the meaning
say what’s best
But sometimes it’s  
just saying less