Once there was a poet girl who wrote her heart out on a site called theprose.com. She had made a friend on this site.. well many actually, but there was one in particular who never failed to make her laugh and/or feel good about herself and her talent. He read and commented on everything she posted and called her a mentor and muse.

A chance to show her appreciation came along in the form of a challenge. The challenge was to write on the style of another Proser as a tribute to them.

The poetess decided it was the ideal opportunity. She began reading through his posts, the ones she hadn't read yet, so she could get an idea as to what to write. She read and read, laughing and smiling at his quirky sense of humor and his unique imagination. She was already familiar with his style and figured, how hard could it be?

Well, the poor girl found out exactly how hard it could be. She wracked her brain trying to come up with something quirky, short, and entertaining, possibly funny, definitely touching, maybe with some kind of lesson, could be a true story, maybe fiction, probably fiction that sounds like it's a true story... and totally unique with his twinkling sense of humor.

She realized she had taken on a much more difficult task than she had anticipated.

After two days of wracking her brain, starting and abandoning about 20 stories that just didn't do him justice, she finally decided instead to do what she does best.

She wrote him a little poem:

A favorite writer of mine on Prose

Can see pretty far past the end of his nose

He never fails to entertain

While teaching a lesson of being humane

He makes me laugh attempting a rhyme

Well, he makes me laugh almost every time

He writes a post for us to read

He plants a healthy, kind hearted seed

Sir Yankeedoodle, you've quite a noodle

Please don't ever cease to doodle

I'm sure the rest of our friends will agree

Your magical pen makes me so happy!

And that was what she posted as a tribute to her friend, hoping he would know how very appreciated he is.

The End.

Beauty is as beauty does

The soul knows that's the heart

Of the place where poetry goes

In search of sympathy and art.

It falls and withers I suppose

Til someone breathes a kiss

A sandy moment of nibbling bliss

Sometimes also killing us.

Then ofttimes cutting to the quick

Where the red fox lives her myth

Dreaming dreams of happiness

Hopefully found but often missed.

Just as the limpid pool is left forlorn

In the roseate gloom of a wispy dawn

Her lovely words a prickling thorn

Her anxious hopes disgarded pawns.

But then and thus we bear a cross

And vision images we can but mourn

That sometimes leave us at a loss

But teach us how to ease our pain.

While standing high above us tall

Finding us ancient mysteries

Is the oracle who can riddle us

And even make the priest confess.

It's a tough world we inhabit

With extremes of agony and bliss

To which the heart makes us listen

And the aching soul answers, 'I exist'.

Dear poet, or poets, if you find yourselves, this is about you. Otherwise, it is all about me, as I would like to see myself but can never be.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall

Who's the fairest of them all?

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,

I try too hard,

I slip, I fall.

I fall until I am nothing at all.

Mirror, mirror, tall and grand,

I look in you,

I cannot stand, 

I cannot stand what I must understand.

Mirror, mirror, tried and true.

I push away,

but I'm not through. 

I will never be through, with this, with you.

Mirror, mirror, you may gleam,

Something is wrong,

The problem is me.

Me and everything else that is so obscene. 

Mirror, mirror, seems you're broke,

Fallen apart,

I still look.

I looked, and that was all it took. 

Mirror mirror, shook the ground,

Bright red wrists,

And a hospital gown.

Wretched gown, and tears falling down. 

Mirror, mirror, round and bright, 

Taken away, 

To fix my sight.

Without my sight, perhaps I can end this long night.

Mirror, mirror, light at last,

I am strong now,

Take away the broken glass.

The glass belongs in the past.

Mirror, mirror, passed the test,

Impossible, I failed,

Put it to rest.

Rest in peace to all dreams of being the best. 

Mirror, mirror, how it hurt,

To sell myself,

To prove my worth. 

rivelets of water's rage under tent

force mind of mine and friend's wake

cold beneath

heart race

drops above pelting

the wind lends its hands

pulls at shelter's dome

flapping slapping tearing nylon seams

"Let's go if we aim to live!"

shakes his friends face

both into motion

higher ground, night surrounds

in the morn' the remnant of rain boasts deeds

"hey, look what you missed!"

box canyon's end mud mountain mass

might've been two entombed