Patchwork-Poet

The sea is still, but the salty air still shivers- the last dregs of anger from the once violent winds...          after the storm. The smell still lingers, driftwood and death- clinging to the wreckage...          after the storm. The cries of mourning hearts, reach from across the vast expanse- lamenting sailors lost to the waves...          after the storm. Burial at sea, Davy Jones' locker- the fear of sailors...          after the storm. A cough, a gasp, an isle uncharted- forty-two portions of hope...          after the storm.

Graceful- something I'll never be. Graceful and beautiful, lithe as she glides through the waters. But wouldn't you know, that beautiful, graceful creature, began as something different- She began as something not quite so stunning herself.

Just a little bit of my heart, longs to be noticed. A faint hope awakes in my soul that maybe, just maybe A slight part of you longs for me too.

Sunglasses. Black frames sit atop the bridge of your nose, hiding your eyes, hiding your gaze, as you watch the passersby. You make up little stories for them, put yourself in their shoes. What is their life like? What did they leave for this vacation? Don't you wish you could have one too? This is the curse of the writer- Constant company. The muse doesn't ever shut up.

Life keeps changing, keeps moving forward, and we're just hanging on, along for the ride. We're doing our best, making a difference, and touching as many lives as possible, along the way. Times are changing, we've only got one chance, the same as everyone else, before eternity claims us.

War, hatred, pain... it's everywhere,     And America never even blinks. Countless lives are laid down,     For you, for your freedom. Death, destruction, insanity... it abounds.     Soldiers live, and they die, For you, for your dreams,     For everything you refuse to stand for,     Even though you know you should. They provide- safety, security, freedom.     And how do you repay them?                    You don't. The thought never even crosses your mind. You tie up your yellow ribbons,     Boldly proclaiming your support. But by morning, you've forgotten.     So much for your loyalty.

We'll graffiti our memories, Here on these walls. Destruction? Or art? All we want is to be remembered, To make a difference here, To someone. When we're gone from this place, Years from now, Making choices, making change, You'll remember us, Us and our graffiti art, And you'll see.

Seconds like days, Minutes like years, As we run from the unexpected- Walking these tightrope lines. We're chasing the past, Unaware of the future, and Missing the present. All the while grasping for something         Just                 Out                          Of                     &

She could hear the music begin, as she turned and twirled in front of the mirror, waiting. In a few short minutes, she would walk down the aisle to Pachelbel's Canon, beautiful, steps perfectly planned; he would look at her, and not be able to help smiling. She had been dreaming of this day for her entire life; the day she would finally belong to someone. There was a knock at the door, it was her turn. As she approached the sanctuary door, friends and family in the audience stood. Soft smiles and tears gazed at her from all sides. Candles and lilies adorned the pews, just as she had wanted. As the music progressed, her feet took her carefull

She stared at the puckering paint on the walls, contemplating her options. Call…let be…call...let be… Call. She fumbled for a moment, hands trembling with too small numbers.                          Ring…ring…ring…                          X "Hello?" No answer. He glanced at the ID, it was her. "I know it's you…please say something."