The king of what was stands in silence
and surveys his sunsetted realm.
His spine is straight in stiff defiance
of the twilight of the kingdom he’d helmed.

On a plastered pedestal high he stands
surrounded by the waste of his times.
Carved into it, once acclaimed in his lands,
was his name, now covered by vines.

The pale sheen of low sun as winter nears
casts shadows across his etched face.
Its grooves grow deeper year after year —
he’s the gnomon whose shade this sundial has traced.

He takes no note of the thorny brambles
that have entangled his fixed stony feet.
With flinty gaze and wrapped in a mantle
of granite, he keeps watch through storms and sleet.

Now stripped of his titles and even his name,
the proud king of the ruin’s still there.
For while the long night has broken his fame,
still he stands, marked by his unbroken stare.

Don't be fooled by my complacent look
I'll take every word within this book
Give it new meaning, no, it took
Me minutes, or ten hours.
Don't be fooled by my resolve to do
What's not for me, what comes from you,
My mind has still not gone all through
And found reason in these flowers.
For I know I'm of an independent mind
And I know that if the mind is not aligned
With yours, I'll steer my own track down this crooked lane
Where all howl with their might and main
On how they're sitting in the rain
Because investigation, what's that?
Curiosity may have killed the cat,
But don't take food brought just like that
Not knowing what's in the caveat
May land you in the black hat.
And when will you know if you will be pulled out?
And when will you know, if you know, what format?
But, don't be fooled, I won't be sensible,
Sweet, right or comprehensible,
A position indefensible,
Yet infinitely more fun.
Don't be fooled, my reason's lock and key,
There's stumbles still in stock for me,
And alas, many more of these,
Will be some already done.
But I know I'm of an independent mind
And I know that if the mind is not aligned...

The Quiet Ones are not to be blamed for their inability to say no, but rather the ones who don't take the opinion of others into consideration. Unfortunately, unknown to many, the Quiet Ones can be beneficial if given even a moment to speak. Then they can give knowledge that many seek. If allowed to speak, they can offer solutions to both sides of the argument. If given a chance to speak, then they can bring peace to all conflict.

Often when I thought myself wrong it was then that I was.

When I let my stubbornness and individuality get the better of me,
I always say, next time will be different...
but then my stubbornness and individuality get the better of me.

The trees have shed everything in defiance of frozen air,
Nudely and bravely they boast of their strength with a stoic’s stare.
Their leaves have deserted them, their fruit has fallen, they don’t care.
The trees in January stand strong in loneliness, and bare.

Is their naked strength in the wind how they are supposed to be?
Do they welcome autumn, to rid themselves of their greenery?
Perhaps they don’t notice that the lives they gave have set them free?
They have lost something beautiful, but are they less of a tree?

Spring water flows into their roots, branches drop their icy weight,
The first sun-kissed buds emerge to witness the tree foliate.
But does the tree even notice this, its cause to celebrate?
The tree is at its life-giving most, but it does naught but wait.

The tree changes before me, and because of it I change, too.
But in that moment, when I love that tree, it feels nothing new.
And I think back, if the moment someone loved me, if I knew?
But I am too like the tree, oblivious to what is true.

In my life, never did I've regretted my decisions
For I knew what I was doing to my life
Or at least I pretended to;

Now, those simple plea of my Mother years ago
All those advices and sweet words, I've never listened
Came crashing every faith I have in me
Drowning me in realizations

Why did I not listened to her?
What have I done to myelf- to my life?

The inevitable is now clear
Those stubbornness I possess
Leaded me to my story now- lost and helpless;

For never did I knew I've lost my path back home
When I kept on chasing after dead dreams my heart seeks- without looking back;
And never listened to the words of wisdom my Mother partaken for me;

Now, having no accomplishments only regrets
I slowly drift back to the place my heart belongs
Where my Mother awaits for my return
And welcomes me once more.

I'm tired
yet here I write
beneath the bright light of my room
too tired to move the trash off my bed
writing in hopes others will understand
will resonate with me
will be happy
for some reason, or another
I just want everyone to be happy
but I know it's not that easy
and I wish I knew that when I started out
because I wouldn't have painted myself in this corner
with no way out
now that my mind has had itself firmly planted
in that frame of thought...

When I say I'll fix it, I don't mean for you.

Everything about me burns, but not with passion. It's a slow burn, like one would expect from a lit stove, or car engine. Not all consuming, but enough to make you uncomfortably warm.

It cooks my speech. Flays my sight. Promises blankets of solace, and instead delivers smothering tendrils of smoke. Touch my cheek. Rest your observations on the pink that seemingly speaks in demure humility. I am not willing.

I am heated.