Tread Softly

I did not sleep that night-
For fear that I might wake to see that you would be gone.

I could not think that night-
For fear that grief might overtake me again.

I did not know-
I did not know!

The more my mind took pains to think-
The more I knew that I had wronged you.

Everything is new-
Mistakes that ravage my mind
So that I have nothing left to define my soul but these.

I’ve abandoned who I knew myself to be-
The person in which I would trust in everything-

She left so long ago.

To where- ?
I don’t know.

It was a deep night-
In which she left her Beloved’s side,
In which she walked the other way
And wouldn’t turn her head to look back.

And on that night-
All hope was lost.

She didn’t want to come back,
And thus my common sense,
What used to be so keen to me,
Is gone.

I did not sleep that night-
For fear that I might wake and find that you cease to be.

Now all I can tell myself
Is to
Tread softly.


One side-
My heart-
An imbecile for love,
it beats no longer for me,
But for you- oh you.

You saw my heart for the wreck it was-
You waded through the wasteland of my soul.

You saw it swiftly beating encaged in tiny bars trapped away-
In an old grocery cart you saw my love,

You took pity on something-
So obviously not beautiful.

But when you saw your pearl, shining in the sun-
You could not help but love her.
So you left my heart- dying and outrun.

Now it is tired, useless, and cold.
A pitiful beat, cracked dusty and old.

But a fire striketh within the grate-
A flutter of a birds wing-
A wanderer from the flock.
It boiled and glowed and cried out all at once!
One side of this old wrecked heart is left
one side-


I am not that which he is
I am not that which you are
I am not that which she is

I am that which I am.


I am a spiders web

not tangled

but spun.


short #3

What is love,

that thou should know it?

What is peace,

that thou should give it?

If thou hast anything to do with these,

then I have been grossly at fault with my understanding

of what these mean.

Short #2

Can I call you anything I want?
Can I call you hope?
Or should I just call you disappointment?

You can choose.

It is general for me to right free verse medium length poems. For a while I think I will try to write short title-less poems. This could be a challenge because it is hard for me to show emotion and what I want to say in a short amount of space. This will help my writing in many ways. Firstly it will help my poetry. To be able to express exactly what you want in poetry is hard. To get across emotion is something truly great. For me this is hard. I prefer to write novels more than I prefer to write short stories. This is also why I postponed starting to write my novel. Because though I have planned most of it. I want people to get to know my characters as soon or as late as I want them too. The main character will be a mystery for a while and I will focus on who  I will lead them to think is the main character.

So here is my first one, I hope and expect them to get better over time.

It is my only wish

to fly away

from my sorrows

to which my heart seems to love.

Morning through the eyes of the blind.

Dawn awakes in restless fit
her slumber bequeathed and hand knit,
by my God.

Oh! my God,
is it morning already?
has time passed so fast that while I sleep I no longer dream?
and vicious circles of thought, run wild in my mind until suns first beam?

Oh! my God,
what is this?

That I might not see what thy calloused hands,
those knowing hands,
have done?

On them, may i not place a kiss?

Oh! My God,
I love you,
that you could perhaps awaken me so,
softly, sweetly,

Oh glory, God!
Be it a joyous day!
On which birds sing love songs,
and children play. I can not see
But may your first breath, take mine last away.

Restore mine eyes,
when I cross heaven’s hold,
may they come alive, be it love at first sight that they behold.

To Dream

To Dream

It was dawn on a cool, dark, morning
sleep had been awake, all night.

Wintertime, on a cool, dark, morning
the only time,
when all creatures use sleeps ideas to dream.

To dream, oh, to dream.
Oh how sleep doth longeth to dream.
The only thing,
that he doth want,
oh, to dream.

No birds, or folly, or loved ones,
no grassy meadows fresh with ripening dew,
no sweet song sung, by fair maiden, sweet,
only cold, lonely, plateau
of sleepless nights, and joyless day.

To dream, oh, to dream,
not so.
On a cool, dark, morning.

I found this and I still really like it. so.


Memory cries in it’s sleep,

that anxious feeling pushed into it’s dreams.


Memory longs for it’s soul stuck in the deep,

it can’t have what it wants

and what it wants is not what it seems.


Memory remembers everything,

the good and the bad

and the things in between.


Memory misses a long lost friend,

gone away for long

but coming back again.


Memory has a hope inside,

shining in the dark

gleaming in the night.