We are constantly withering away every night just to rise again in the morning and brush the ashes off our shoulders. The world is cold at night. Thoughts are unforgiving. Mistakes are made and regrets plague our minds with the venomous sting of apprehension. But as the dull warmth of sleep creeps in, the fire of dawn comes like a new beginning, a blank slate. I am no longer who I was yesterday, a scared shell afraid of my own shadow. I am older now, and I am ready to make better mistakes. We are not weak because of the things we allow ourselves to feel. We are strong because we were brave enough to live through them, to fall and then rise again from our ruins and let the fire mold us into something cleaner, something a little more beautiful than before. So everyday I live life until I am weary, collapse into myself, and wait for the sunrise.

And so she came to be

And evermore she came to stay

And for that, I was grateful

Though I never came to say

Through different eyes, my simple mind

Could not even express 

The wonders that she brought with her 

And lit up in my chest.

She differed in the slightest ways 

Apart from all the rest

Her eyes a little livelier,

Her mind had me perplexed.

I could not fix her pieces in the puzzle she became

And gave up when I'd had enough

Like she was just a game.

But all the things she came to be,

They seemed to acquiesce

That she was something greater 

Something I could not attest

And so I came to realize 

She was never mine to call

I could not give her what she'd want

Or anything at all.

The greatest thing I'd come to love

I soon let slip away

For I was far too young to know just how to love her anyway.

And so she came to stay

But even so, she did depart

For love is like a flower

Born to wither in the heart.

For the friends I made

For the ones I would have

For the things I learned

For the things I would have

For everything and nothing

For time well spent

For the place that was home

I thank my good fortune

I stepped into Prose

I shall not spill a tear

For I shall leave you with smiles

May you write so brilliantly

That the Universe gasps in awe

May you make friends for a lifetime

And forever more...

With greedy hands, Unguarded hearts

We live life undefeated

Our diamond eyes are made of glass

But truth is never needed

From dusk to dawn we wake

We shiver and we shake

We're ill but still we call it

What we call it as we may

You thought that he was made of gold

But Midas knows the truth

That diamonds are a lie

And gold is no fountain of youth

You're young and then you waste it

Now you're old and you will die

And never tried to reach the stars

Or even touch the sky

So love notes are a waste of time

Just shout it to the sun

If you love her, tell the stars

Each and every single one

As for your stolen glances, well

I'd like to have them back

For love is not a panic

It is not a heart attack

She lit a fire in your eyes,

In your stomach,

In your brain

That smothered as it grasped your heart

That cold and bitter thing

So with empty hands and weary hearts,

We live life so defeated

And if this is how we fall in love

Then I don't think I need it.

Another

There was another.

I've heard of her.

She walks with a careful limp. Stray eyes slip and forget her at first glance.

But I see straight through her.

She's an unknown.

She's an angel.

Not in the strictest sense of the word.

But an angel of The Wood.

I've watched her mend a burnt gash in bark, breathe life into a drooping toadstool.

Call on the earth and grow a dozen black roses in the dead of December.

Just because she could.

I've seen her smile the way people do when they think they're alone.

Except I was watching and she could only assume paranoia at my presence.

Tick tick tick went her intuition but she tamped it with a shaky smile.

She'll tack it as waylaid anxiety.

And why shouldn't she? 

She is young and will forget the unsettling moment.

And I'll be a distant call of a crow.

Echoed and forgotten. 

Every morning before the sun warms my back she's here.

Talking to the brush and young flower buds. 

With every rise and fall the air simmers and the ground stills.

Dust lays down and trees lean in to listen.

She murmurs to the roses now,

smiling as they wave to and fro with her words. 

They love her because she holds magic.

Old magic not seen for centuries and certainly not in this wood. 

Her kind is what makes places like this breathe. 

Angels look after woodlands and stand to mitigate when man and nature merge. 

But she doesn't know.

She doesn't yet understand her purpose. 

I see her pick up a branch from the ground with a frown.

Shaking it with eyes alight she calls for it to return.

I see it wobble and hover to a tree. 

Bright yellow shimmers where branch meets bark. 

It has done what was asked of the angel. 

But why does she ignore a dying tree?

Her age is what sews her ignorance. 

No one soul can hold her accountable for that.

Only time will teach her to grow learned.

Still I cannot help but cast blame on this green caretaker.

All I asked was for her to turn around.

But she is too young to see. 

Kicking the wet needles she ponders her power.

Furrowing her brow in thought. 

She's timid now, not one in twenty, but that is now.

Given time she will grow and so will her abilities.

But I can barely see her anymore, my bark is crusted.

Even my hearing is muffled now.

All I can make out is my crackled breathing with each wind stroke.

Caressing my dying branches. 

I've tried to call to her.

Many nights I allowed the small owl to speak for me.

Other nights the wind itself to no avail. 

My case was settled and I was to meet the earth for one final time.

At last one dim day in Spring I see her eyes.

Speckled green blue droplets burning with intensity.

She puts her face so close to mine.

"How had I not seen you Old One?"

Her voice is strong and steady but those eyes are wet.

Her eyes give everything away. 

And they tell a sad story.

For years she played with it.

Her gift.

Never stopping to ask why.

Never thinking.

Never looking about her.

And now she would reap penance. 

I can see her regret glazed in her eyes.

She is now six and twenty. 

And I see she is no longer timid.

I said that wouldn't last didn't I?

Even so it is too late.

And we both know it.

Yet she whispers to me, almost song like.

Hair as brown as my bark furls and unfurls with the wind.

This gentle wind called upon by her power.

And I can feel my eyes grow soft.

I can taste the smoothness of my bark.

One last harvest before the long winter.

Stained glass leaves lying to transfixed eyes of their death.

She opens her palm to me. I am taken by the green pine cone 

wrapped ever so tightly; looking as shy and she once was.

"I ask that you forgive me and allow me to sustain your legacy." 

Placing a soft kiss she buries the cone a couple yards from me.

She hits a root but I say nothing.

I was not forgotten.

I won't be forgotten.

With a soft intake of breath and decent of her eyelids she murmurs:

"Rest Old One. I release you."

And what else is an old tree like me to do?

I obey the angel. 

Hi my name is WhiteRaven (well my pen name is but you can call me N.) I come from a large family with even larger issues. Politics, religion, empty relationships, monopoly rules you name it. And I'm here to bring ink to them. As well as my own daily demons. We've all gone through (or are going through) odd, painful, joyful, or seemingly meaningless shift in our lives. I'd like to express what I've gained from my life "shift." This isn't Robert Frost writing to you. Its just me. And if you like what you read and see a bit of yourself in my poems than I've done my job. Thanks to all who've already enjoyed my work (or gave feedback which is always important). I hope you'll join me in sharing fellowship in pain. Because with it we rise and raise others together. 

Willkommen. :) 

My words are clumsy

They trip and they stumble

Lay heavy like boulders

And in football, they'd fumble

Sometimes they may flow

Like the ocean, in waves

Or crash like tsunamis

Wreaking havoc for days

They let out to much

Or nothing at all

They make me seem bitter

They make me look small

They cut and they bruise

And they carry bad news

When I reach for a hand

They build up a wall

I can't understand me

It's crazy, I know

That the things that I think

My mouth can't echo

For my mind, it is screaming

It wants to be known

But I shut up and swallow my words.

The students tumbled into the classroom and sat at their desks. They pulled out their tablets, and propped them up for the day's reading assignment.

"Class, settle down." Mr. Harding's words rang out, and everyone became quiet.

"Today we will discuss an event that occurred more than a hundred years ago, back in 2061. Who knows what that was?"

"The great famine," said Mark. He did not bother raising his hand. Mark just blurts out answers, to the annoyance of the other students who never get a chance.

"Yes Mark, the great famine. Global population increased, and food supplies could not keep up. The governments of the world realized what the main problem was- the poor kept having kids they could not provide for. They implemented forced mass sterilization programs for millions of people, which resulted in an angry public and uprisings in nations all over the world. So, what happened next?" Mr. Harding continued quickly- "Anyone but Mark."

David raised his hand, and Mr. Harding called on him.

"Doctor Jacobi's vaccine."

"Correct David. But technically what Dr. Jacobi invented was not a vaccine, but a Gene Therapy treatment. He introduced it without people's knowledge or the government's authorization into the water supply. It spread through the population, turning heterosexual people homosexual. He knew he would be discovered eventually and they would clean the water supply, so he made sure it would spread beyond those who drank the water. It is transmitted sexually, and even through casual contact like shaking hands. It is also passed on to further generations, ensuring a homosexual populace. Straight people reproduce as an accidental side effect of sex for pleasure, resulting in numerous unwanted children. Doctor Jacobi made sure that defect in straight people no longer harmed the planet. He was executed as a terrorist in his day, but we consider him a hero now, because without him we could not have the paradise we now live in, where everyone has all of their needs met."

Alex raised his hand, and Mr. Harding called on him.

"Why didn't we all die off?" asked Alex.

"Very simple- as you know from your parents, when a gay couple truly wants a child and can provide for them, they have one. Some gay male couples ask a lesbian friend to be a surrogate, Lesbian couples ask a gay male friend to donate sperm. No unwanted pregnancies. No unwanted children. Every child that is born, is born into a loving home."

Jeff's question was next. "What if someone today, um, kind of has feelings for someone they should not?"

The rest of the class turned and looked at Jeff.

"Well, Jeff," said Mr. Harding, "There are some people that are born with a mutation that makes them immune to the gene treatment. They are then sent to hospitals to come up with a customized alternative therapy."

"What if that does not work?" asked Jeff, now appearing very nervous.

"Then that individual is sterilized, for the good of the world as a whole. They can still live out their lives much like asexuals do, but they will not spread their mutation to another generation."

"I guess that is not so bad," said Jeff.

"Do you need to speak to the school nurse, Jeff?" Asked Mr. Harding.

"Yes," said Jeff, and he stood up and left the room.

Whatever you do in the world,

Will be insignificant.

You can sugar coat it if you want,

Say that its not true.

But one day there will be no one left,

To remember me or you.

You can be a famous singer,

Like Beyonce of Jay-Z,

Or a nobel prize winner,

Like Albert or Humphrey.

It all doesn't matter.

Ashes are just ash.

Will the world end in ice?

Or in a red hot flash?

The point of this poem,

Is not to make you sad,

But to tell you to enjoy your time,

And stop being so mad.

Stop worrying about little things,

Release all that stress and dread.

Don't worry about that broken glass

Or your messy unmade bed.

Enjoy life.

Smile at the sky.

Laugh when something is funny,

And enjoy the wild ride.

I'd be lying if I said I loved myself.

We'd be a little closer if I murmured to the mirror "I hate you".

That lighter isn't for the candle.

That knife isn't for street thugs.

Sleep? The cycle's unbalanced.

Food? I don't understand.