Today I turned sixteen
quite an important year for me
and all of my friends had kept asking me
what we were all going to do together
don't get me wrong
I love my friends
but I prefer to share this special time
with my family
and my one little wish
had come true
because all I ever really wished for
was to be with my family
always

Little Miss Muffet
Sat on a tuffet,
Eating her curds and whey.
The little dog laughed,
"Jack, jump over the candlestick."
Along came a spider,
the cat and the fiddle,
who sat down beside her
and frightened Miss Muffet away.

"Hey, ******, ******!"
"Yes sir, yes sir."

Jack be nimble
Who lives down the lane.

Baa, baa, black sheep,
Mama's going to buy you a diamond ring,
and one for the little boy
who lives in Drury Lane.
All the king's horses and all the king's men;
To see such sport,
don't say a word.

"Have you any wool?"
"Do you know the Muffin Man?"
"Three bags full."

And if that diamond ring turns brass,
Jack, be quick,
Mama's going to buy you a looking glass.

One for the master,
Mama's going to buy you a mockingbird.  
One for the dame,
Mama's going to buy you a billy goat.

Jack jumped high
The cow jumped over the moon.
Jack jumped low
And the dish ran away with the spoon.
Jack be nimble,
Mama's going to buy you a cart and bull.
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Jack jumped over and burned his toe.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
And if that horse and cart fall down,
Hush, little baby,
one little Indian boy
couldn't put Humpty together again.

And if that mockingbird won't sing,
ring a ring o' roses,
and if that looking glass gets broke,
you'll still be the sweetest.

Tom, Tom, the piper's son,
did you ever see such a sight in your life,
as three blind mice
stole a pig, and away did run.

And if that billy goat won't pull
a dog named Rover,
see how they run,
they all ran after the farmer's wife,
and Tom was beat.

And if that cart and bull turn over,
and the pig was eat,
and Tom went crying,
Mama's going to buy you
A pocketful of posies.
And if that dog named Rover won't bark
down the street,
One little, two little, three little Indians,
Mama's going to buy you a horse and cart.
Much wants more, and loses all,
little baby in town.
Three blind mice,
who cut off their tails with a carving knife,
see how they run.
We all fall down.

A crow rested on a fence
and I wondered what this story-book fiend
with his dark, beady eyes, clever sense
and his feathers well-preened
wanted from someone as hollow as me.
I couldn't do anything but wait and see.

What did one say when faced with a crow
who had no appointments to rush to
no place he must go?
As if speaking was something I could do.
So with a wooden arm I gave him a little wave.
Pleased, he came closer, that fabled young knave.

I could not move much and I could not speak
as the crow stopped right at my rooted feet
and prodded my foot with his beak.
I'm a listless liar he deemed worthy to meet.
So I did not speak and I did not move
an inaction of which the crow did not approve.

He flew back to his fence that creaked
and shifted when the wind pressured its joints.
The forceful draft stung my eyes so they leaked
tears, I found I always disappoint.
The crow flexed his black wings
eyes closed as, for him, the gale sings.

I croaked out a question from deep in my throat
the wind became a whisper as the crow paid attention
"Are you here to jeer and gloat
over my bad decisions and poor intentions?"
He shook that dark head and said
"You're a terrible liar. I'm here to help instead."

"But are you not a portender of death
here to show me I have the illest of luck?"
Why can I not catch my breath?
Wondrous wings glide on waning wind then tuck
neatly against his back for he chose my shoulders
to better speak words that doused what smolders.

The crow rested on my shoulders and cawed
a sound soft and broken
and I thought it terribly odd
that the crow would caw when it was well-spoken.
So when the pressure of panic permeated my chest
the crow spoke again so my horrible heart could rest

"If I were just a crow residing on a fence..."
He gestured with his wing to where he was before.
"Then I'd have left you to your own offense
and not show you what you often ignore."
His black wings pushed my head 'til I saw the gate.
Hope swung at my roots freeing my feet from their hate.

"I believe you have many apologies to make."
I nodded my head and the gate opened.
The crow continued, "The right choices often take
an ax to your tree, to your roots. With hope and
desire to change, you can grow something new."
I stepped into the world beyond the fence and away the crow flew.

Crack my bones like dry kindling
and make more room for some logs.
Then set them on fire
watch my body burn hotter
than any star.
If you feel queasy
at how I burn so easy
then maybe turn away.
Let me die out with the flames.
Don't douse me.
But my dignity is something
you're not willing to give.
So you take the water
and toss it on me.
A fire put out, can't die on its own.
I'm just embers and ashes
that you leave out in the open.
A day and night passes
and you return to the spot
to poke a stick at my cinder heart.
You're shivering, are you cold?
It's too bad I have no bones
left to warm your icy soul.
I'm a fire put out, can't die on my own.
I'll see you home.

Just to start off
may I say,
that I hope you had,
or will have,
a wonderful birthday.
I do not know,
precisely when it is,
but I hope you know,
that this is my gift.
People should not gift,
only to receive,
you told me so yourself,
but you deserve it
more than anyone I know,
because of who you are.
You are kind,
and caring,
and always do what you believe is right.
You are an amazing
friend,
and i'm proud to call you that.
You listened to my problems,
and gave me your advice,
you really helped me through,
a tough time,
and that makes you
a brilliant person,
an awesome friend,
that's who you are.
This is the best I can do,
in return of the beautiful gift,
that you have given me.

I'll tell a tale of a heart that wants
a place to sit and rest
where it can relax from a brain's taunts
slow its beating in a chest
that's locked up tight buried in the sands
of a beach the picture of paradise
people dig for it with trembling hands
can't obtain the chest though they paid the price
of searching for a treasured heart
that wishes diggers will take a break
A heart beats though it wants to depart
how much more hate can it take?

Higher functions demand a heart to beat
it continues to hurt beneath diggers' feet.

I want to go back,
to when I was five,
that was ten years ago.
Ten years ago

Like how the leaves turn orange and brown
in autumn,
things have changed.
It's been difficult

This new year,
was not what I had wanted,
but then again,
does anything ever go
according to plan

I remember when I was five,
my family and I
would go out for ice cream,
on hot summer days,
but now we don't have time

I remember playing outside,
and running through the woods,
and being friends with everyone,
there was no drama

I want to be five,
I want to be a kid,
with no worries,
weighing me down heavily

I don't want
To sink like a stone
In the dark waters
resting uneasily
Let me rise
and be a child
with no worries
let me live
with no responsibilities
let me be
*a Kid

Every possibility must be explored
to its fullest extent
in order to come up with the best solution
in any situation.
Does the concept of a disaster-like situation seem impossible?
It isn't.
Think it through completely.
Does the concept of a perfect day seem impossible?
It isn't.
Think it through completely.
What will you say, do, see, think?
All must be thought out ahead of time.
Who will you see? What will they say? What will they do?
Know this ahead of time.
Never be caught off guard
Never be surprised
Never be at ease
All options are viable
All options are viable
All options are viable

I'll make a million mistakes
in my life time
but I won't let them hold me back.
I'll learn from them.
But the question is,
will you?

Footsteps.
Perilous, ominous footsteps.
Every floor board is creaking,
and you're hiding,
as pale as a statue that had once seen its glory days
but now is crumbling to pieces.
The door swings open.
You hit the pause button,
everything seems frozen,
and you hit rewind.
You press stop,
at the first memory you have.
Then you hit fast forward.
Moments are flashing
right before your eyes,
you relive your life.
The good and the bad,
and the in-between,
the day where you learned
nothing was ever black and white,
the first time you lost someone
you truly loved,
your first steps,
your first kiss.
Your first dance,
your first graduation,
your first day you felt truly on top of the world.
Your first fear,
your first broken heart,
your first crisis of who you were.
Your first everything,
and your last.
The moment you realize,
that not everything goes according to plan.
Everything goes by in a matter of seconds,
and then you hit play,
and you take your last breath.
A solitary shot rang out,
and your mind fizzed to nothingness,
gone just like your memories,
gone like the ominous footsteps,
gone with the feeling of life,
gone just like everything else
that had left before.
Then it ends,
and another power hits eject,
and your part is extracted
from the movie
called life.

A mist persists as the sun rises.
It's dense enough to be a fog
like the kind that blankets an Autumn night
when the air holds the water too tight.
A shadow sits on a pile of logs.

Seated in defeat a woman rests her weary feet.
Head bowed low, hands knitted together;
then pulling them apart like undoing an errant stitch.
A frown marring her face as she can't help but twitch
as the early morning breeze mocks Summer's weather.

It'd be better if her sweater wasn't woolen fetters.
Its looping pattern looked more like grey chains
meant to keep the early morning shivers contained
but they're too loose so no heat remained.
Her teeth chattered, blood cooling in blue veins.

The cool breeze eases until it ceases.
The woman rubs her shaking arms with withered hands.
Light and warmth start to spread as the sun climbs the sky
burning away the fog that sheltered all from the eye.
With energy and suddeness, the woman stands.

In her field of vision is life's final decision.
Something only she can see when the time is right.
What she saw the summer morning, no one can say for sure
but it appears to all she disappeared and no longer had to endure
the rest of the world's plight.

The rustle of sheets
the pacing of feet
and the lights outside flicker
in the dark street
that is covered in sleet
the house is losing heat
shiver under blankets
to gain warmth is a feat
when the big hand meets
the little hand, there are seats
that are inanimate and cold
anxiety ain't sweet
anxiety ain't sweet
anxiety ain't sweet

I saw a picture today,
of a face I recognized,
but couldn't put a name to.
It was a picture of a man,
standing next to my father,
this man was old,
his face had countless wrinkles,
and deep laugh lines,
his eyes were grey blue,
a sparkling grey blue,
full of wisdom,
and happiness.
My dads eyes matched his.
Their faces had the same shape,
and their built was the
same,
everything about them,
was the same,
except one was old,
and one was young.
And then I saw the old man's
hat,
the hat was from
being in the airforce,
and then I realized,
why their eyes were the same color,
I looked in the mirror,
and my eyes,
were grey blue,
I looked at the hat,
and ran to my closet,
I pulled out the hat,
so old,
and worn down,
with age.
I stared at it,
and my heart tore in two,
I can't believe I forgot,
it was you Grandpa,
it was you,
in the picture,
and I didn't realize it was you.
It's been so long since you passed,
but every time I think of you,
its like the wound opens up,
again,
and my tears,
are the blood,
that seeps out,
of the wound,
flowing rapidly,
with no signs of stopping.
Till I feel i'll bleed out,
and die,
and then join you,
but I know you want me,
here,
on earth,
or you would have come for me,
by now.
Oh Grandpa,
why did you have to go?

I really wanted to say to everyone that reads my poems,
that I really appreciate the fact that you do.
In all honesty,
I never really have been recognized for anything.
Whenever I showed someone a poem in person,
it has always been,
"Oh you wrote another poem... that's nice."
Then of course they wouldn't actually read it.
It was too much like putting my heart on my sleeve,
only to get it ripped up,
stomped on,
and buried in the dirt.
But all of you have dug my heart back up,
and in a sense,
you all have resurrected it.
I know that I can go missing for a little bit,
and then randomly appear again.
I sometimes feel like that one friend
that you only see once in a blue moon.
I also know that I can get depressed from time to time,
and you all have to deal with my strange bouts of sadness.
Anyways,
I wanted to say thank you
and that I love you all
and I love all of your poems as well.

There is a memory I keep circling back to
during hours of soft, smiling silences.
It is rather incomplete, just a piece really.
A single shard of shattered years I hold dear.

In this memory, I am on a hill just before it descends
holding an ice cream cone that once held a vanilla scoop.
My hand still sticky where the dessert dripped down
as I sought refuge in the shade of a lilac tree.
Late Spring's sun ceded to the blooming lilacs,
I could breathe in the perfumed air with an ease
of those with lungs that worked consistently.
And I could hear bees,
buzzing overhead, pollinating the light purple flowers,
going about their work at an unbothered pace,
like they too were soothed by the lilacs.
Content with what they already had
unhurried to gather more than they need.
I took my time munching on the wafer cone
unbothered like a bee.
And I thought to myself at the tender age of seven,

I'll remember this.

I just didn't realize at the time
how important that promise would be.

This memory is a shard, a piece,
it was jagged and hurt to squeeze.
Because it was brilliant simplicity
just before the concept of breaking touched me.
But the years I've cared for it
receiving cuts from how much I despaired
that it was gone, I'd never feel it again,
my care to return to this piece smoothed its edges.
I know now that there was no use clinging so tightly
leaving a mark in my hands as if it was proof
to be read in my palms that I had happiness.
Because I haven't lost it.

I will always enjoy the memory
of eating ice cream beneath my lilac tree
and smile at that simple piece.
I remembered it because I said I would.
I remember it now to experience it again.
It is a memory of happiness.
A promising peace.

I'll be around
hanging upside down
and maybe i'll frown
for I heard a sound
that made my head pound
and i'll fall to the ground
weak grip making me drown
or losing the hound
in this forsaken town
and I know I feel bound
from speaking to the crown
but don't worry I'll hang around
don't worry I'll hang around.

A soldier,
crawling through the mud,
dodging bullets,
saving lives,
and taking many,
before he dies.

He is wounded,
and he lays there,
giving up the fight,
he knows he can't go on,
he knows he'll never make it back home,
so he waits for death to come.

Then he realizes,
with a sudden jolt,
he has everything to lose,
but he can face death head on,
and not back out,
the soldier rose from the ground.

He charged forwards,
bullets ripping through him,
but he won't stop moving,
till his battle is won,
and once he does that,
he can return home.

A soldier,
facing death everyday,
knows that he might not return home,
everyday is a risk,
but it's a risk worth taking,
when you're fighting for what you believe in.

A man is chopping wood on a stump.
His hands steady the wood
and then with an ax he swings downwards,
Crack!
The wood breaks from the force
splitting into two pieces.
Then the man continues the pattern.

Now the routine becomes mindless,
all muscle memory, no thought.
He pauses, then shakes,
not allowing what's clinging to him to stay.

A few more forceful swings of the ax,
the wood cracks into two
The man pauses once more.
He shakes again but to no avail,
this is clinging to him.

The ax drops from his hands
Blade-down.
But the man doesn't notice.
He is just staring at the wood.
Perhaps what plagues him is maybe more
complex than wood
would ever hope to be?

He's sitting now
he's shaking too.
He is grabbing at his hands and his face,
his chest and his stomach,
his legs and his... feet.
His foot...
How did we not notice?
An ax fallen blade-down
did not sink into the ground,
but into his foot.
The agony he must be feeling right now!

Wait, he's no longer shaking?
His pale hands pull the ax out of his foot,
the blood is slowly oozing out.
He stands up slowly,
grabs a piece of wood,
and swings his ****** ax,
Crack!
The wood splits in two even pieces
falling on either side of the stump
and the man continues
making equal amounts of the same thing
on other side
with his ****** ax in the middle
letting his muscle memory take over
once more

"Would you like some cake"
A women asked me politely as she was exiting the door holding a tray of cake.
"No thank you, i'm not a fan of cake."
I respond, laughing politely because the situation was a little bizarre.
"That's probably why you're so skinny and not fat."
I didn't respond after that and here's why:
repeat her last line, except with the nastiest tone you could imagine.
Then imagine her glaring at me as she left.
...
What did I do? Why did that escalate so quickly?
What just happened....

This beach house is blue
Yet it feels gray.
A sign on the wall points to the ocean
But actually it's pointing to the bay.

The walkway is lined with seashells
That are broken, jagged, and painful.
The front door doesn't even open
The force needed is almost shameful.

The feeling inside the rooms upstairs
Relates to its dark and boxed-in design
The oppressive weight of dead eyes
Watching for one step out of line.

Its uncomfortable and terrifying
Hardly a place for relaxation.
But each gray year we come here
To get more depressed on vacation.

A boy with a bear was sitting in his room.
The bear was missing an eye
and the thread was unraveling
but his mother promised to fix him up
to make him new again.

They were going to his friends house
and his mom told him to leave his bear
But the boy didn't listen.
That bear was his heart and soul.

It was a warm summer day
the sky was bright blue
not a cloud could be seen
and the boy opened his window.

Don't stick your arms out the window.
The boy didn't listen.
Don't stick your bear out the window.
The boy didn't listen.

He wanted his bear to feel the warm air
in the same way he did.
He just wanted the bear
to feel the warm air.

But with one large bump,
the boy lost his grip
and down, down, down it goes
into the street-like abyss

But he didn't say anything.
He didn't know how to speak.
His bear helped him and now he's gone
somewhere on the side of the street.

The boy closed his eyes
shaking his head
and he slowly closed his window.
His mother breathed a sigh of relief.

He stared out the window.
He didn't look back.
He turned a blind eye
to his own unraveling thread.

Where is your bear?
I dropped it
You dropped it?
I dropped it

By the time they went to look,
it was already too dark
and the bear was gone
and so was the boy

I dropped it
I dropped it
*I dropped it

I blaze my own trail,
when everyone is going North,
I go South,
because I want to explore something new,
and challenge myself.
If you're with me,
that's fine,
and if you aren't,
that's fine too,
just don't get in my way,
when I create my own path,
for myself,
that is only shaped,
by the people I meet,
but never steered in a direction,
other than my own.

She lives her life so thoroughly,
it seeps through her clothes,
her skin,
and into her blood
and all her greatest joys
swim through her veins.

But there is a strange pressure,
a tenderness in her chest
that makes her feel weak,
and people don't seem to realize
that this person who is filled with joy
is bleeding.

She walked inside a dazzling white room,
unsure of how she got there.
In front of her sat
a small, black, table.
It's bold contrast
made the room seem less blinding.
On top of that table
stood a golden contraption.
Filled with stunning white sand.
It was beautiful and unique,
yet she did not know it controlled
something so important.
That beautiful thing
was an hour glass,
it was her hour glass,
and she saw how long she had.
She watched as the sand dropped slowly
into the bottom.
She believed she had much time
to achieve all she wanted.
Just as she was about to leave the white room
the sand started to fall faster
and her heart dropped.
The pile of sand at the bottom
became larger,
and there was less at the top.
Each single grain of sand that fell
struck a chord so deep within her soul,
that she flinched,
as if the fangs of lost time sunk into her skin.
The pure, white sand,
that seemed so beautiful,
turned brown as it decayed.
The white walls lost their shine,
and they they became a dingy yellow
as they crumbled to the floor.
She looked at her hands,
they were covered in wrinkles,
and brittle like dead branches during winter
laden with heavy snow,
threatening to crack,
and fall to the ground.
She placed a weak hand on her face,
to feel the grooves on her forehead,
that would never relax.
The small wooden table started to fall apart,
but the hour glass stayed golden and upright.
Nothing was going to stop time.
She walked painfully slow
towards the hour glass,
she tried to turn it around
but it was stuck.
She watched as the sand dwindled to almost nothing.
Rage blazed in her heart,
she could not afford to die now,
there was too much that she would lose.
She grabbed a piece of the now broken table,
it was once as bold as she was,
and now it was a withering mess
of dark splinters.
She gripped the piece
and she smashed the hour glass
into little fragments,
that glittered all over the floor.
Time had frozen.
The last grain of sand was floating in mid air
above the pile of lost time.
She breathed a sigh of relief.
She knew that this couldn't be her end,
it had to be destroyed
so she could live,
maybe even forever.
She turned and started to walk away,
but she didn't notice
that the one, brown piece of sand
fell slowly to the bottom
and landed gently on the pile.
She fell to the floor
as agony consumed her.
The light slowly faded from her eyes
and she lay there in the dingy, withering room,
her mind no longer connected
to her cold body.

Time is the only constant.
Breaking the hour glass would never change that.

I burn savagely,
and I burn alone.

Red is the only color I see,
I scorch people with my eyes,
I scar everything with my words.
When I burn,
they will burn with me,
and in the end we all die
from the strength of the flame.

I freeze silently,
and I freeze alone.

Everything has stopped working,
I can not move,
I can not rage forwards.
The ice numbs me,
my finger tips are turning black,
the frost continues to bite me
and I have no substance to burn.

Let us all rise,
and fight our inner demons,
ones that threaten to smother us completely.

Let us all fight,
and finish our wars,
and become survivors.

Let us all live,
our own lives,
shared with others we care about.

I'm calling all you out,
who are fighting your own battles,
and I'm saying to come join me,
and fight,
and survive.

Rise to this call of action,
and help others who are struggling.
We will all fight,
and,
We will all win.

Take the keys and drive
and drive and drive
don't look back just drive.
The girl cruised down the highway
hanging onto the wheel
foot pressed ******* the accelerator
forcing her eyes to stay open.
Drive away, drive away, drive away.
The car can only go so fast.
Why can't this feeling of freedom last?
As the gas light blinks on
the girl blinks her eyes hard
and looks to the horizon once more.
She is not far enough away yet
but the need to leave is stronger
So she ignores the light
eventhough it's wrong.
Racing at a speed deemed unsafe
especially with the gas light on.