People say it is a field,
A lovely field of happiness.
With flowers spread,
Throughout this field.
Skies,
So clear and blue.
The sun,
Shining ever so brightly.
Birds chirping as if it were
The first of spring.
Rabbits hopping around
As if they could go on
For forever and eternity.
As the creatures enjoy,
Enjoy this wonderful place,
For it makes everything
Joyful, exciting, and happy.
A dark cloud has come,
Taken up the rays of sunlight.
With one cloud,
Brings many clouds.
The flowers,
Have now died,
And weeds
Have taken their place.
The skies
Are no longer clear and blue.
The sun
No longer shines with the rays,
The rays from the heavens above,
Instead it rains,
Rains as if it were meant to do so.
Birds no longer chirp as if it were
The first of spring.
Rabbits don't feel the need to hop,
For they won't go on,
For forever and eternity.
People say it's like a field,
A lovely field of happiness.
They don't understand,
For every field of flowers,
There is a single ****,
That one **** eventually spreads,
And takes over the flowers
Replacing them as if
They have never existed.
For every time,
It is sunny and blue,
There will always be
That one small, dark cloud,
Hovering right near by.
There is no such
Thing as a lovely field of happiness,
Every field has its flaw.
It is a field everyone lives in
Some point in life.
Once you are in this field,
There is no way of escaping,
There is no way in making it perfect,
For there will always be that one,
That one **** or cloud,
Standing in your way,
Of perfection and happiness

100 percent effort
100 percent of the time
100 for all my grades
100 hours of work
100 times I was the best
Perfection.
100 percent depression
100 percent of the time
100 nights I didn’t sleep
100 hours of crying
100 masks I wear every day
Perfection?
100 percent expectation
100 percent on display
100 forced smiles
100 ways I hide the pain
100 versions of myself
Perfection…

Is the day perfect  
if there are no birds to wake you  
but there is lemonade?  

or if you live on Lemonade Street  
but there are no birds on electric lines  
because the utilities are underground.  

no birds twittering in trees  
just the sweet sour taste  
of lemonade puckering your mouth  

the scent of bonnie braes in the air,  
standing still in a pitcher of ice water,  
tangy, acidy,  
still sweeter than most.  

My neighbor,  
who is always preening and  
chatting up the neighbors,  
makes hers with bubble gum bursts and *****,  
a lemon drop of punch drunk love.  

If I want birds and trees  
I just walk across the street  
to the older neighborhood with telephone poles—  
some line birds,  
but mostly garden gnomes and bird baths.  

My dog delights in yanking me there,  
scattering the conferences  
of cardinals and jays in mid song  
from worm feast  
to the trees.  

Here, old men and women  
in shorts and summer dresses,  
holding citron nectar  
in tall glasses with seeds, rind and pulp,  
delight in their perfect day  
filled with lemonade and birds.  

I don’t know anymore  
if they are thrilled with the trill  
or fed up with the cacophony  
of untuned bird calls,  
birds in all the trees where they belong,  
silent at night.  

Deep in the forest  
filled with leaves,  
I suppose their diamond-throated song  
is a mournful dirge  
for when a tree falls  
silently, deadly in the green.  

One day our small community saplings  
will bloom,  
and the days will be filled  
with the miracle of birdsong  
and drinking lemonade  
on Lemonade Street.

We always talk about
strength,
about pride,
about the hurt others caused;
we are the victims of our world
we look for pity.
for understanding,
we talk about the monsters
we didn’t unleash.

I want to talk about regret,
about the demons I’ve let out;
about the ache I burned in others hearts;
about the monster I’ve been in others
fairy tales.

I want to be raw
and true to myself.
I’ve never been good
or perfect,
or even alright.

My words have been like poison
and they have pounded in others’ hearts.
I have left people
to themselves
when they were at their worst.

I have used my power to hurt;
to insult.

There are people who carry pain
because of me.

And what is worse
is that I have denied forgiveness
to people
for things
I could have done.

I tweak stories
and tell lies
to make an angel
out of me.

I have excused
my actions
to myself,
to be able to close
both my eyes
when I sleep.

Sometimes I wonder
if I’d be
better off
dead.

In love we grow
In love we change
Do not turn away
Accept flaws and all
For together we heal
Together we grow
Together we change
To be loved we must know
We are imperfect beings
Yet while imperfect we stay
we love we grow we change

Thank YOU, that I am not perfect!

I take off this heavy yoke,
This burden that cripples my spirit and robs my joy.
What is it like to live a different life?
To believe something different from what I've spoke. 

To try new things and become more of YOUR joy.
Thank YOU that I'm not perfect!

Thank YOU that I can make mistakes,
And can try again.
There are many possibilities ahead!
I can zoom ahead and I can apply the breaks,
I can stumble and re-wire my brain.

Thank YOU that I'm not perfect! 
So here's to another attempt,
So here's to continuing on the journey...
No matter what…willingly and NOT circumspect!