In a breeze of timid whispers
and with wary downcast eyes
the secret world was opened
to where true depth of feeling lies.

With each step, stories were told
and a tapestry of intimacy unfolded.
to dare or not to dare
to care or not to care.
In the dog-days of romance,
those are the calls
that lovebirds must answer.

She was silent a mute, or so they thought.
            Butterflies would frequent her abode.
Dancing around a kaleidoscope of words fluttering
around her, she was like a lantern in the dark
           and they seemed to be drawn to her.

But where colour was imbued above,
below in unseen hollow spaces,
                    there were remnant glimmers.
Fragmentation's of what was but deathly hues
enveloped in the frigid cadaverous silence.

There was no flying from where they'd fell,
                like autumn's leaves falling off the
tree of life now they were obscurity.


No one knew that she was able to talk,
          but she was an empath,
   collecting the negativity of those
                                           around her.

Everyone thought she was in a mood.
                   She'd just look at them with sad eyes.
But she played it cool to everyone around her.

They're all happy but she whispered all
             the woes of every word expelled,
she tried to play it cool..

But when she told the butterflies what she knew they
            feel frigid, cold.
   They wanted her company, but they hid under her
               bed hiding the depression that fractured

there every movement.


She always tried to show positivity,
     but the shards cut her feet underneath her
                              bed.

But above was rainbows where beneath the
                  fragmentation of emotions screamed.

I can fly with birds of sorrow,
I can fly with twisted wings.
I can fly like there’s no tomorrow,
I can sing like many springs.

People are but lonely birds,
Calling, calling, to be heard,
By other birds, by anyone,
Yet each bird keeps flying on.

Not ever pausing, to stop and hear
A lonely voice, calling dear,
The voices are lost, the voices are found
In the sound of the song, the song of the sound.

But I can fly on lonely waters
And stop to sing with lonely souls,
I can linger on the frontier,
And stop to sing, all alone.

I can soar above the clouds
Watching for someone worth singing with
Watching for someone in the crowds
A singer of songs, a legend, a myth.

But the sky is still grey, so bleak and dark,
Of blackness and unwanted things,
So I fly, as lonely as a lark,
Singing alone, on whispered wings.

She wrote his name on the seashore, along with what she never told. Taking a step back, she let the turbulent waves crash upon the shoreline and wipe away it all away. She let the words be taken back by the retrieving waves, letting them be lost in the sea. Inhaling the cold air that made every cell of her shiver she hoped one day the words will be whispered by the breeze from the sea.

May even your shadows burn bright so I can find them always
Or let your light be so shadowed that I may sleep in the glory
I will leave the shallow summer and wade into your deep winter
live in the seasons that keep in your favor
All I ask is that years take on forever
for time to keep us anchored
Yes all that I ask is that I shall ask at all and should you listen
anything can be rewritten

This year,
love has so many more meanings than the last.
Love takes up more of the space in which emptiness lived until now.
This year, love can be definable,
or not.
I've learned that some types of love do not sound like
"I love you"
but can only be felt.
In the kind touches of a companion,
of a new little sister,
or of your cats.

Love that can only be seen,
in the pictures of you and your best friend at a party,
in the face of someone who will stay on the line until you say goodbye first,
in your co-star on stage when you realize you've got it down.

Love that can be defined, but only in the obscurist of ways
because who are we kidding;  we're teenagers.
"You are so good"
"I can't wait to see where life takes you"
become immense words of love.

Love only whispered,
in paying for your friend's coffee,
in adding a special touch on a card,
in promising to run away with your best friend when she shows up crying about her mother.

Love,
a light touch of mysticism, the kind that makes you stay out late talking in a Walmart parking lot,
the kind that fills you when you make plans to run away to the city after graduation,
the kind that takes you 40 minutes to get lost in before realizing it.

This year was spent loving,
maybe not even myself most of the time, but loving nonetheless.
A swift movement, a soft turn,
and here we are.
A new year of undefinable, definable, mystical, whispered, and purposeful love.
I can't wait to see where life takes us next.

I would wonder what happened to
the nightmares that were vanquished
by my father, as I was a lingering
in repetition of night terrors.

He had held me in implications of what
was unseen in his eyes but birthed on my
brow in lingering sweat, never was his
thoughts of his own only mine confused.

He would rock me too thoughts of a rocking
chair, that nodded me of to a simpler sleep.
And he would wait to see If shadows pierced
that thin veil between dreams and a silent night.

I awoke one morning in the arms of my father,
his eye black, and I asked what happened daddy?
He said the darkness tried to make you cry so I asked
politely for then  to quietly leave.

"excuse me please leave my son in slumber,

I whispered words in your ears, I know where you
live, in the darkness and this is light,

Turning on the light of a hallway drowned out a voice
deep inside you, and in there final yearing to grow inside
but quenched washed away in light it hit back and faded.
And that's what happened to daddies eye and I'm proud.

The light will always be on too show those dreams that
daddy is in the light and will always be here for you.