She used to be alive
Not hanging on by a thread
Not worrying if she’d survive
She was living life instead
Then the lights went out
And the fears began to shout
And she sat in the dark with no desire to face another day
Out of place, out of grace
She retraced all the ways she had failed
Then she thought why waste another day?
There’s nothing left to say
Nothing left but today
Plans already underway
But there must be a reason to stay

When I am gone, oh, let me take my rest
On a plot of land where trees are blessed
To spread their branches, push out their leaves
Above the silent dead to comfort those who grieve

Beneath outstretching limbs let me lie in shade,
Perhaps along some hidden mountain glade
Where deer can browse on meadow grass
That shimmers or shivers as seasons pass.

Let old roots penetrate my loam and grow
Tall and straight as pines or crooked as old oaks,
Store house for squirrels, nest home for wrens,
Protection from the cold and owl along the glen.

Beneath a forest of varied green and steady brown
Let me lie in peace outside some town
Visited only by gentle rain and silent snow
At home with God, and unaware of winds that blow.

3 years
I find a new place
3 years
I wear a new face
3 years
I carry my shame
3 years
I burden my brain

Am I the variable, or a constant in march
It's never too bright and it's never too dark
A rolling snowball or a forest in fire
Border planted flags do not inspire

differentiate between
   the obscure of time
and the real now
   falling forward

no place is here true
   but a piece of what
can be is whatever

i smile and drift
   my mind and this
is but a short poem

only know where i
have been going to a new
place again again

I imagine my happy place,
I picture it in vignette taste.
Like looking through colored glass,
There's a sepia quality to its grasp.

Like wading through a dream,
There's a vagueness to its every gleam.
Everything's the same yet different here,
A constant familiarity hangs in the air.

The picture varies from time to time...

Always it would be a house of some kind;
The edges forever unrefined,
Be it a cabin, a mansion, a farmhouse or two or three
Every ***** nook and cranny this mind could carry

Always it would be somewhere remote;
By the sea, the countryside, by a cliff, or under trees,
Sometimes in an open clearing of endless green grass swaying in the breeze.

... Home.

Though every version varies,
One thing's for certain in this house of made-up stories.
Always, always, and always a thousand times more,
You'd be there standing by the door.

Now I never questioned this part somehow
Cause here's the truth of the matter in tow:
This place could be a garbage dump for all I care
But I'd still call it heaven so long as you're there.

And I find that it's the only thing that matters;
To have your figure carved into this place's corners
I'd gladly let this place take your shape
The smell of warm bread and books here you shall drape.

This landscape is treacherous and ever-changing.
But I know as long you're there in my dreaming,
These childish mock-ups of reality
Shall remain my favorite moments of clarity.

It is my piece of heaven on earth,
My secret happy place while I'm on this dirt.

Heaven don't have a name
But God forbid I find it fitting
That if it did, of course

It would be yours.