To the hearts that I broke,
you don't know how lucky you were.

It hurt,
oh it hurt when I said I didn't love you. When I 
threw you on the ground like a thousand 
China plates.

You thought you'd never heal but she picked you up 
and glued you together 
with gold. 

She filled your cracks and now even though they know
you've been broken, 
you're better now.

And I would have filled your cracks with candy,
so you could have shown the world your colors while you
wasted away 
in 
a 
waterfall of my saliva,
alive with non commital kisses.

You just don't know how lucky you were.

And then he wrote
Wrote poems built from faith and wisdom

And then she wrote
Wrote poems built from heart ache and tears

If only he'd notice her suffer
If only she'd let him see her pain

History is not
simply
the dates
and battles
buildings
and famous names
associated
merely with an
idea
or occurance.

History is not
years
lumped into
eras -
not general greatness
or the greatness
of generals.

It is
the wool
lovingly spun
by a mother’s hand
and stained
by a full day’s
honest labor.
It is the
pealing
of laughter
and church bells
in an untouched
meadow
of flowers
wild in every sense.

It is
stolen moments
in a hayloft
or on the bank of a river.
It is the heat
of the sun
beating down
on the shoulders
of a man
doing everything he can
to make it.

History
is in all
the moments
of lives
of people -
simply
people.

The world may change
but humanity is
constant.

I write to…
get out of my head
to rid me of dread
to understand
to be understood

I write…
how I’m feeling
or how I wish I felt
when my words are bad
when they are good

I write and…
it makes perfect sense
or makes no sense at all

I write…
to connect the dots
to find a clue
to get to a better me
to appreciate you

I write...
Because I have to