I wonder what secret
The trees whisper to the breeze?
Do the birds hear that secret
And announce it in their song?

Does the wind hold it
And drop it in the seas?
Does the sea speak it out
And share it with the stars?

Do the heavens then resound
With the secret of the trees?

And the clouds,
Oh yes! Those clouds
Blue, black and grey
Is that why come rushing?

Across the seas to caress
With gentle rain the trees
And whisper,
"Heaven knows your heart,
There are no secrets from God."

The trees smile and sway
Fulfilled and complete in love.

i wonder, at what age
you became out of my reach;
i wonder, if i even
tried reaching for you

i know that history leaves its mark on everyone
(but not many have been hurt by the tracks
left behind in the dirt
like you have)

you can sit there for days, weeks, months
while we contemplate your fate,
tossing the choices in our hands
like dice

you hear the word expendable
mumbled in countless conversations
and wonder, at what age
you became in our reach

you think of the family you left behind
and hope they will find their way to tennessee
to a better life that is  
quiet. peaceful.

will they miss your selflessness;
your keen, incisive way with words;
the bumps and hills of your rough skin;
the smell of your perfume?

i miss your evergreen smile;
your poetry;
your skin against mine;
the wonder in your eyes

She said she was fine
but under her breath 
was a heaviness that he had never encountered before.

He said he didn't hurt anymore
but in his hands
he held the heart that used to fit in his chest.

She said she was happy again
but under her tongue
she kept the bitterness of before.

He said he still loved her
but in his eyes
was a darkness that she could never escape.

He writes poetry
But no one knows

He writes poetry
He writes about love
And loss

He writes about smiles
And frowns

He writes about sorrow
And forgotten towns

He writes about how lost he gets
Caught up in his own mind

He writes poetry to
And about others

But no one knows

Know one knows the depth of his soul
Because they all choose to see the exterior
And that exterior screams

Preppy
And preppy
Don't have souls

Or so they thought
Until the day he was consumed
By his own poetry