I had a dream that I was powerless,
My hands could do nothing,
cause no harm.

My words were not heard,
No one would listen,
She was standing in front of me,
But none of my words were sinking in, and the man standing beside her was laughing

He got what he wanted.
Her.
And he's laughing at me.
The decisions I made aren't clear anymore.
The choices I made aren't clicking in my head, let alone hers
She isn't mine anymore

Maybe this isn't just a dream.

Blade
Skin
Slice

Warm
Flowing
Blood

Dark
Silent
Thud

Scream
Sirens
Rush

"It's
Too
Late"

Calm
Quiet
Rest

To be the black sheep of the family —
what a terrible thing to be.

All the neighbors and relatives
heap praise on my super-successful siblings
and hurl insults at me
at the first chance they get.

I know all too well –
it is their jealousy of my siblings' success
that they take it out on me.

If success is measured by
money and fame,
I am not going to take that bait –
I am happy as I am.

Insult me all you can,
I can take it all in.
For you can only give
what you have,
and for that reason
I forgive you.

I remain the black sheep
of my family–
by choice,
at peace and forever free.

When the moon soars abloom,
The God rests the doom,
Like a hand that guides a spoon,
Moon that nests alone fresh and unborn,
Slithers its way,
The purest ache of yearning's sway,
As the cloud take heed and veil it away.

The mocking bird stands careful
Atop the cactus
in the heat
It drops its load
And flys off
It's yearly part in this complete
The droppings contain
A parasitic mistletoe seed
At night comes forth a tendril
When the host begins to breathe
It slowly wends its way in
Deep into the flesh
Reliant on the moisture
In which it sweetly rests
It's sits there near a Calendar
Then bursts out
In a Blossom
Of blood crimson red
Humming birds drink of its nectar
The cactus half near dead
Then at last the mistletoe
Bears its fruit
And the Mocking bird returns
To feast the cycle off once more
It's nutrition duly earned