The first time around,
We didn't plan,
We talked in tomorrows,
Because we knew it would end.

Yet on our second go,
We planned it all out,
Now we talk in years,
Because I only have to wait seven more,
Before I can put a ring on your pretty finger,
Though for now that's fantasy.

i know you.
or at least i hope so.
and even if not, i would pretend to.

stories needs ears, not interpreters.

if a tree falls in a forest, and no one listens—
it does not fall

but
if a tree falls in a forest, and someone listens,
but no one understands—
well, it does fall.

and that’s all that counts.

let the ******* tree fall
when there are ears to listen
even if they are stupid

too stupid to understand
the melody.

I am a dead tree,
Hallowed branches waving in solemnity.
Wind whispering through my skeleton,
They tell lies to the young sprouts of the forests.
Convince them that not only is life a foolish game,
It's a foolish game they're losing.
An old soul, I stood tall watching poets come,
Then I began to wilt as I watched poets go.
The eyes that once admired my growth,
Turned to fingerprints and memory.
My bark is riddled with stories,
All the lovers that made a promise on my skin,
Leaving the now grim scars of foreshadowing.
I am a dead tree,
Hallowed branches waving in solemnity.

When will I be young?

I asked after mum’s story --


of her girlhood years.

Don't visit the troll's cave,
And expect the troll to have changed.

Keep in mind you're lucky,
That I let you lie and rot,
And didn't just slay you on the spot.

I poked a bear,
Because he was sleeping in a tar pit.
The bear woke and cried and yelled,
"Why would you dare wake my slumber!"
I responded to the bear,
"For you were sinking in a pit of dark."
And the bear cried some more,
Then dragged himself from his sticky smelly bed,
Just so he could throw tar at my home.
Then he walked right backed, kicked rocks at me,
And laid back in his pit again.

Before I was born,
God looked down at my unfinished fate,
And he declared,
"We shall make him a poet, but he will learn to be,
And not be gifted with."

Well God gifted me,
And sent me down to earth,
In the fall, a season marked by death!
How ironic I was born,
In the month of earth's last breath.

As a young child I played happily,
As the angels of dilemma watched over me,
And every so often sent a tragedy.
That I'd have to foster and live with,
Until I returned to God my poetic gift.