My body somehow knows
The grief tomorrow holds.
I ache and throb
But I cannot sob;
The urge to cry
Stings my eyes.
My feet drag heavily
In the depths of this valley.
Every year without fail
I remind myself I am too frail.
"You're strong without the numbers,"
Yet I was too weak to pull you from your slumber.
Each March 22nd
Feels just like the 1st end,
When your heart stopped beating
And mine started bleeding.
I'd skip this whole day
But I'd miss the chance to say:
I miss you, lovely little hurricane.
It's all I can do to keep sane.
The smell of mint
Hurts just a hint.
The skinny jeans and hair bows
I could never disown.
I wear your effect  
On my forearm *****.
The pain of loss is akin
To etching you into my skin.
My hands shake with cold,
Though not as cold as a headstone.
Oh, how my body knows
The grief tomorrow holds.

My head is filled with voices
Each have something to say
Telling me to make different choices
Each wants to get their way

I am trapped in a box of confusion
Inhaling water of a million oceans
My broken parts have suffered complete immersion
My heart has dealt with a thousand erosions

The voices chew through my nerves
Like acid
Their tone of voice swerves
Their faces placid

I have a gift for pretending
Keeping this smile on my face
As if my world was not ending
Even though that is the case

Bamboo groves sing the symphony of winds
in their crackling I hear my heart
on the red lone summer road.

The village woman passes with her cow
she has no time for poetry
yet her radiance fills me to beg life
more..

O Death be a while away
I've taken root on this land.

They carried us
Through gestation,
Or took us in
Without hesitation.
Our coming
Was a celebration,
Mothers are our affirmation.
They deliver.

When we're quiet
From travails,
She makes time
For school-yard tales.
The warmth of sunshine
Shyly pales
To her prevailing arms.

She feared for us
Til eyes dried out;
Stayed home alone
When we left her house,
Waiting by the door.
A balm and living cure.

When Moms do well
All can tell
The Madonna-like connection.
No need to forgive,
We'll always grieve,
They've loved us
Since conception.

Let us go out through the window to a World that isn't there
through the pages of a story book
where people really care.
To the mountains and the valleys
to the places far beyond
where the writing on the pages permanently forms a bond
and the reader and the writer
get to know each other's mind.
Let me take you through the window and I think that you may find
that the magic in the mirror
is the magic in your mind
and those feelings of abandonment
are tents upon a plain
where red dinosaurs and dragons play an everlasting game
in the stories
you can read as they bleed into your brain.
There's a widow and a farm boy that scrape a living off the land
there's a princess in a castle
and a military band
there are savage tribes in jungles where they scribe upon the trees
there's another place out somewhere where there's a thank you and a please
through the window where a pane was broke
a word was spoke
a book was wrote
is where we need to be
and we need a bit of candlelight
to light the way to see
another magic place the wizards call the wizard library
and I think that you may find
that the magic's in your mind.
Where the words are bled across your eyes and every line is the surprise and nothing ever lives or dies
I think that you may find
a bit more magic in your mind.