A little boy plays by the river,
Slips on wet rock by the stream,
He scrapes his knee.

He cries from the pain,
But his buddies laugh it away.
And he becomes a man,
Because grow men don't cry, right?

I walked in the evening,
Throughout the widow's woods.
Following the rabbling brooks,
Down to the lonesome cliff spire.
On the edge I spied a man,
A ruffled suit, head in his hands.
Slowly, I approached him,
And sat by his sorrow.
'For what are you here sir,
For why have you come to shed tears over the edge,
Straight to the rocky jaws of the gorge's floor?'
He raised his head from it's rest,
Turned it to look at I.
'My friend I have come for death,
His sweet relief and eternal rest.'
Widened did my eyes,
'But friend, it is not your time,
I see a pool of youth still in this eye which you gaze with.'
He sighed, looked back to the edge,
'Your eyes lie to you my friend,
My years of youth are gone,
But before I go take this letter,
I want not my last thoughts to go o'er these falls.'
So I did, then once it laid safe in my hands, I left,
And so did the man,
But left not to his home,
But to the end.

When I was young,
I believed they were 'Morning Doves.'
That they would fly down in the night,
To rest on my lawn.

Now that I'm older,
I know they're called 'Mourning Doves.'
That they were named after their haunting song,
Of all Earth's sorrows and plight.

If I could
love you more
today than yesterday,
I will, but still
it seems impossible
'cause in my heart
I've loved you
more than
anything
always.

By now it's well past nine,
but all I do is part the blinds,
head spinning, hair awry,
messed up sheets, covers up high.
And my day disappears. In my bedroom
my house, while powerful
people make powerful choices,
powerful problems, as I
pour another coffee, blinking back haze,
a stupid teenage phase.

It's past nine and all I do is
blur another line. Overlook the
scope of what I know we can't escape.
Where affluence is influence,
privilege; potential. Fighting a frenzy
threatening my future.
I stare at my windows foggy glass
in a quiet room, inconsequential.
As numbers feed sinners
and a sinner's scent lingers.

My afternoon morning voice vocalises
prospects - don't expect experience
except where artists lay down
to die.
Should I go out and have a walk?
Should I shock my mind awake? Awake
away from mistakes - take away the
ache for a clean slate, for my state
is stained and tainted - tongue tied.

It's past nine. My school shoes
are worn through, but they're mine. I
pull the laces too tight, constricting;
grasping control where control
contributes only to collapse. Collapsing,
as they're wading through the
landfill to find a throne to
recline on, willing to
pile up any bodies that they need to
climb on. Tears freeze on my
cheeks into pearls. They sell
them as necklaces admist the peril
of a nation with drowning youth - no
fear, no thought - the truth.

They poison air with gases they
can't name, and breathe the last
lungful and avoid all blame as
the air is ****** out of
the wind. My window. Suffocate.

It's well past nine, should I get
up in the meantime?

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.

I’ve been to a place at
The end of the sidewalk.
In between safety and  
wild debauched nights of
concrete and neon.

It’s a tabula rasa.
Pristine and precious.
I love it there
where creativity and
innocence dwells on the
backs of phoenix birds and
purple pigeons,
and on the slopes of verdant
valleys, lush with cerulean
blue ponds.

The trees all
gave and gave.
Dragon fruit and  
mangoes and
plants that taught me  
things.

Every fish and turtle that
I caught talks of Keroack
and Dali,
dreams, and love.
Serenity,
thick as maple syrup.
I met some surreal people
and creatures in this land.

And every **** one
of them oozed  
compassion and  
truth from  
every pore.