The name I made for myself.

It took me years of patience and effort, and I never spared a single moment for myself alone.

I had always relied on this goal of mine, a dream worth sacrificing myself for.

And then one day, it's all gone.

I'm forced away, hearts unsynced, and although it's also been a while, my heart remains shattered.

Because I realized that I'll have to go to sleep, and dream.

Being awake and dreaming at the same time is impossible, isn't it?

Because it had always been the name I once made for myself.

Above the horizon
A canopy      
          So dark
Words cannot separate

Even when in
      Negative image

The single full stop
                              Of a moon
             Gives nothing away

I don’t believe in heaven
But if I somehow did
I know you’d be there waiting for me
How you were back when you lived
I don’t believe in heaven
But if I went there I would see
Four little furry faces
So happy to see me
I don’t believe in heaven but
Sometimes I wish I could
If you had ever spoken I think
You’d say that I should
Because
The closest I’ve been to heaven
Was being loved by you
The innocent love from pets now lost
Is the truest love it’s true

I heard your trees both screaming
          As your cack-handed garden workers
    Fired up their vicious, howling saws
                  To start a massacre that no tree could survive.

      I saw the shards of leaves and wood
  Flying off in all directions
               As the lifeblood of the trees
                               Oozed into the gravel just below

                 And before long it grew very silent -
   Only whispered echoes of the screams
           Floated high above the barren wasteland
That is now a yard with nothing in it green.
                    ljm

Sometimes
Give the poems in your head
Some rest.

Don't write them on,
Write them off.

Internally arrange a funeral
Bid them farewell
Give them an unceremonious burial.

The rising poem won't complain
They know well your anguish and pain.

The labour you go through birthing them
Shape their body, give a name
They would understand.

Failed poems are not as arrogant
As the birthed ones.

They too are weary pounding your head
Making holes in your soul
They would rather rest than be born.

Sometimes
They deserve rest.

Let them float away to a place
Where they find peace
And will not be missed.