Can I truly love, that which I have never loved?
Be, that which I cannot, truly, be?
Is it lack of forgiveness, or lack of remorse?
A lack of compassion, lack of empathy?
Do I truly not care?
Any glance I give to a memory of her
Only resides in the cynical.
The emotional phisique, deplorable to me.
The compassion, pathetic.
The frailty, a weakness.
The love, indifferent.
How so?
Why so?
So?

Part of taking upon the name of Christ,
Is loving without a price.
Caring without recompense.
Forgiveness without the thirst for vengence.
So many were touched by her loving hand.
Many were changed forever.

But, I was one of the few that weren't;
I fell to the brunt of her brutality.
Her lagging trust.
Unforgiving eye.
Because I, myself, was capable without help.
I didn't fit her standard of being less.
I didn't need built up, I wasn't repressed.
I was myself, and needed not another,
I didn't help, was I ever a brother?
I don't necessarily show that don't I care
With words, compliments taste weird in my mouth.
Yet, all the same, I do much for my friends.
I'm there, an ulterior influence.

But that is no matter, I never said kind.
Never did display a physique: benign.
I'm troubled she never trusted my word.
I spoke truth, when she 'ccused me of wrong.
Never, once, had I stepped out of line.
I was myself, I held to the line.
But, still, she never thought well of me.
Every hug that I gave, felt hollow— empty.
Have I done any wrong? Am I the problem?
Maybe I've over-thought all of this!
Yet, why can I not find a time where she wasn't?
Where I wasn't treated cynically?
No memory, no emotion, no influence?

"This page was made in rememberence of Ms._
To celebrate her many years of teaching."
Memories, pictures, stories, events.

Not one of them mine, no joyful remembrance.

a score
and two years
of love and
conflict and
rejection and
illness and
acceptance and
love
all over again
reduced to
ashes
.... and memories

The girl who's stronger than me
Retained a wonderful composure before temptation.
As she watched the skull on my wrist,
Count time.
and in my mind,
I heard a soothing sound.
The notion of her crime
The grasping vibrations of my fingers running through the creation of her beautiful nature
that which empowers my imagination:
The awakening pitch of click clack.
She striked the cage that held my heart
Yet she never turned back.

Something new grew in the chambers
That which holds my new commander
Leading the beat of my heart.

The woman who showed me love
Left a trace of dying amber.
Her memories burn
leaving the after image,
of our consecrated union.
She's the archangel that watches over me.
And me the archangel not wanting to return to heaven.

Life after death as she called it.
A beautiful Lie after a sad truth
I shouldn't love you she said.
Making the final decision of our beautiful youth.

The lady who enjoys the virtue of my soul
Excavating the depths of my interests.
Found such a romantic soul, whom
Cried out of the joy that she brought,
Bringing new faith to my epileptic heart.

But she too was an episode.

A recurring dream of my world.
The repeating cries of my soul
The dictators of my heart
Who left in my chambers
Their beautiful art.

The shadows of your body
Reflect off the walls of my memory.
My crimson hands, my old friend
depression sitting down beside me
In attempts to console me.

But I still see you in everything I do
I see you inside me even when I try to escape this living hell we all call home
And all I ever want is you.

All I ever need is you.

But the flowers that once bloomed up my throat
Now wilt at the absence of your touch
And I've realized my only escape from the pain is the person who's escaped my grasp.

In final autumn heat,
Two weeks after apple picking,
The bushel baskets sag,
Laden with the summer's pickings.

Growing sadness clings to me.
I sort the dead and dying
From the thinning lot,
Fearing loss of all to rot.

The first to go,
Soft and brown,
Nearly fall apart,
Require gentlest touch;
Dripping cadavers
Leave healthier neighbors
Wet, in danger of early death.
In separating them,
I hold my breath.

On spotted skins I then
Must concentrate;
Look for inner decay:
Sagging indentations,
Fallen stems;
Hollowed caverns
From bird bites and beetles;
The evidence of worms'
Varicose trails, faintly brown,
Just visible beneath the skins,
Revealing company within.

My eye looks inward first, then out.
I know what this malingering's about;
The cankers that I seek may find me out.

Hesitation clouds my separations;
I wonder what a paring knife might do
To save some portion,
To spare the summer work
Of apple trees.

I wonder, does the apple
Dread the knife, considering strife
As much as I, when I confess my sin
And writhe beneath the penance
My sinning puts me in?

I dreamt about hero he was cloaked in gallant robes

He flew up greatly to the clouds floating by

Amazed and purely dazzled by the mask figure

I was awoken by an alarm clock ready to start my future

And then his big hands swiped me making me soar

“Daddy’s own angel, his little girl”

So I went up to visit as years has passed

My hero lies no mask but resting up in heavens so high