When I was little I was afraid of needles.
The skinny shiny end, like the backs of beetles.
Mom holding my hand tight as I stood there. Feeble.
Telling me I was one of the bravest people.
She ever met.

Afterwards, I'd cry and lay there fetal.
She would tell me it was to prevent measles.
To stop me from looking like a red polka-dotted easel.
But I always told myself, they were evil.

And now, where am I?
The needle's no longer an enemy but an ally.
As I feel the cold metal devil,
and revel in this bed and unravel,
and elevate to feel my fate slipping,
I told myself I was on a higher level.

So that I could ignore the fact,
that I made a blood pact,
With the wrong pack,
of crack,
trying to find my sanity, is like a needle in a haystack,
maybe I need a life jacket,
to save me from drowning myself.
The white walls, and black shelves,
All stare at me like I'm deaf.
But I can hear.
I can hear just fine,
and find the time,
this time,
ill quit.
I swear it.

When I was little I was afraid of needles.
The skinny shiny end, like the backs of beetles.
And now, I'm staring into a mirror, and choking myself.
Trying to tell myself.

To get rid of this evil.

You asked me if I would regret anything,
if I died today-
(getting dangerously close
to a question that prompted
my first ever dance).

I don't know if I can regret any actions,
because I wouldn't feel the way I do,
if I hadn't made the choices that got me here.
(You called me a blessing, with campfire smoke in my hair).

I don't know what happened
along this road.
I don't know if the like turned to love,
or if it ever could have.
(But I know for sure I liked the feel of your hand on my back).

I don't know what I wanted,
as the dying year passed us by.
(My pajamas embarrassed me, and I tried to be cool, and I tried not to hurt you).

I regret hurting you.
I regret not telling you the whole story.
I regret that we would never have had enough time anyway.  

(I've never regretted you, though).

Sundown was a small town that straddled a small river, which had no name, because there was no need- it was the only river, therefore simply The River. The shores were beautiful- sparkling sand, cans, and the sheen of oil on rocks.
But a little trickle of water escaped through a grove of mismatched green and brown trees and formed a quiet, grey-blue pool, which, like all things, had been claimed. This small pool had the unlikely fortune of being ruled primarily and almost exclusively by frogs.
The Sundown Frogs' dominion over the little pond was broken only on the few days when the black-booted man came to visit.
A rock, neither small nor overly large, sat on the side of the Frog Pond, and the man would sit with the rock and quietly ask for its secrets.
Sometimes the rock would cry, dripping oil and water, and sometimes the rock would remain as stoic as the man himself. 
If the man, a minister, decided sit long enough for the trees to quiet, very slowly, the Sundown Frogs would return, their soft croaks following like shadows.
One day, as the minister had been sitting close by for hours, a frog jumped quite near him. It landed on a lily pad coated with the rock's tears, and the ripples it made reached the minister's unforgiving black boots.
The frog looked at the man, and the man looked back.
This contest of pride was ended only by the soft buzzing of a fly, lazily making its way over the little pond. The minister now straightened his spine, for this was his favorite part.
It was fascinating to him, the frog and it's  life. How her tongue released, curled, and then retracted. Just like that! a death of a fly.
The minister had watched such a show so many times he could imagine the action in his head, step by step, like pictures in a old film reel.
Out like lighting, the curl, the buzzing stops, in quicker than out, and then the silence of death.
And so the minister said to the frog, sitting on her lily pad, "The coming days will be brighter, for the sun must always rise again in the morning."
The frog said nothing, because frogs never do.
In the silence, the frog jumped away, and in the empty silence that followed her hollow splash, the minister promised to return again tomorrow.

It's writers block I promise
I want to write you love songs
I wish to inscribe the clouds with my thoughts
To deeply embellish is the tide of my words washing over paper
I keep waiting for the right words to say about you
Cliff diving off dictionary back spines
Finding grained wood eradication
This block has become this
A feeble attempt to feel my way onto paper
Driving my heart through this forest
To find its way back home