Why is it that I can still not look forward when those who left me have never even glanced back?

To take a thought or some emotion,
and to convert it to the written word.
To have a voice unspoken,
and to know it yet may be heard.

To place before the audience
some learning or to simply share a view.
To tell of things, of love or pain,
and to give a glimpse of you.

To remove an outer layer,
or remove a mental crutch.
To open up your soul,
and expose it to their touch.

To etch into the mind,
of someone never met.
A hope a dream or some idea,
that they will not forget.

Each and every poet,
writes of what they have lived and feel.
And from their own experience and dreams,
they paint for us unseen worlds to real.

Through conveyance by the written word,
that great poets have oft expressed in rhyme.
Casting forward thoughts of love and wisdom,
to become unforgotten and to be heard for all of time.

How fragile built a world,
where each thought and chosen attitude,
Lies safe, secure and constant,
on foundations built upon some platitude.

How to deal with life,
to face its tumultuous ride.
To see every obstructive hurdle,
as if from some brighter side.

To see not what life holds,
but some glass measure of its fill.
To somehow look beyond the quality,
to let quantity somehow shape your will.

To heed not the dark storm clouds,
when horizons fade to black.
To see only silver linings,
somewhere beyond fates latest attack.

How glorious it must be,
to hold onto some distant hope.
To blind yourself just enough,
to enable strength enough to cope.

My world seems no more stronger,
though on platitudes I cant rely.
For as life has shaped and taught me,
forever so, to be the pessimist am I.

Cant you see the world is dying as we bake it with our waste?
The only world we have and it can never be replaced.
The forests that are still standing are burning to the ground.
We all stand by and watch it and don't even make a sound.
The oceans choked with plastic, that are chemically changed.
But we just go about our business which surely is deranged.
So many forms of life that no longer roam the lands.
Once fertile soils frying, turned to sunburned desert sands.
Rivers that no longer flow out into the plastic seas.
Unheeded were warnings sung by frog and disappearing bees.
Through greed and lies our politicians plead an economic case.
Will they hang up the closed sign when we come to shut the place?
They pictured it would be yet generations before the price was due.
But we already see the early terror greed has made for me and you.
Yet still they burn the fuels without regard for the planets health.
And sell to you that its okay because you prosper in the wealth.
When you draw your last breath or watch your children die.
Choke on every dollar that you took from turning your blind eye.

I feel the turning once again of this world on which I stand.
I feel the steady cosmic motions and ponder if it is planned.

Do you stop to think, as I am on occasion inclined to do.
To speculate if plans and turning are meant for me and you?

So short the time we witness the revolving of the world.
Seemingly too short a time to see purpose in any plans unfurled.

Do you know a faith that assures you of what tomorrow brings?
Or have you come to question any meaning in religious things?

No one has ever truly known if it was made to turn for me or you.
I know the world keeps turning endlessly no matter what I do.

The flow of time and its expanse argue against a mortal plan.
At least in terms of one centred upon the species we know as man.

Why so big and why so long and why be here at all?
Why believe ourselves important when we so obviously are small?

So short the time we play our piece in what a plan might be.
And so far the plans horizons... too far for our small minds to see.

And yet my mind is caught in the fact that we are small...
Why something seemingly insignificant witnesses or thinks at all?

Old Macdonald's farm used to contain many happy animals...
New Macdonald's farm used to be called the Amazon and only contains beef cattle now.

So lonely now the road I travel so far from what I have known,
Empty and in darkness, borne by pain, so I choose to walk alone.

Where are the faces that once I knew so well?
Abandoned or forsaken along the pathway to this hell.

Craving with a longing to know for real true loves hold,
But too scared of hurt again , safe but empty, I sit out in the cold.

Heart of many fragments and a mind that feels the same,
Trust and loves' illusions are the things I have come to blame.

How can I escape here? What is there to do?
For even if I could love again I could have no trust in you.

Something so fundamental broken and seemingly beyond repair.
So obvious to all who see it, they fear getting close enough to care.

A form of emotions scarecrow born of mind and shared by heart,
To chase real love and trust away before it has time to make a start.

So tired of being lonely, of being caught up in this spell,
Much too afraid to step outside, to replay what led me to this hell.

I seem destined to endure loneliness' never ending empty burn...
Broken mind the only ear to heart's desolate and pleading  yearn.