First, we color life,
full of our shadows,
our life
Our every moment,
our every truth.
Next, we take away the obvious,
making the shadows show was is missing,
Then, make these into shapes of all sizes,
maybe enlarging one or two,
and maybe shrinking this or that.
That is the abstraction of our lives,
To show the meaning that hides behind that smile,
why we do what we do.
Maybe the motiff of your life;
is death,
maybe love.
Or Loss,
Or gain.
After the abstraction, what is left behind?
What do the shadows create in your life?

They reach their arms,
struggling to capture their aim.
The salty, tangy air laughs in wisps,
at their frustration,
as they throw themselves against the beach's shore.
The sand falls away as they are pulled apart,
unable to reach their goal.
The rambling of the rolling waves continue,
when they decide to try again.

Why do I speak out of turn?
Wy does my tongue despise me so?
It shoots out nonsense of which no one must suffer to.
Why do I write poetry for others to hear,
when my own voice is so unsure?
What right to I have to breathe life to these words,
when the courage to speak them is fading,
like the embers in a fireplace.
Why must I spout stupid ideas,
when no one shall ever like them?
Why must my mind be tainted with words that will just disappear into space?
Why am I so helpless?

I was once told,
That anything personal is also universal.
I am not alone.
My thoughts and feelings are not new occurrences but have been felt and thought before me.
You share my heart,
those who read my poems.
We can see eye to eye,
and yet we never met.
I read your heart as I read your poems.
and you read mine as you absorb my words.
But when you read my poems,
and if your taken with them,
a piece of your heart understands that I am writing feelings we share.
Not only are they shards of my heart,
but reflections of yours.
I bare my heart for you to see,
but rather than being separated by glass,
I hold your heart as well,
for you to come to realizations,
for you to better understand your self.
This is the purpose of poetry.
So not only is what I write deeply personal,
But humanly universal.

It's an unfair advantage,
Those who can hide away their feelings,
And drop them down the well.
Those whose feelings shine through even the darkest crevice,
They are hurt the most.
Why do we shed our tears,
When society looks upon us with a displeasing stare?
Why do we swallow our anger,
Shrug off our discomfort,
But drown in our tears.
Why do we honestly hold our feelings,
Before our worst fears?
And await the scoffing punishment
For baring our hearts
For all to see.

Rising to meet the sun,
A relative of the wind and time,
His branches reach out,
Stretching from his slumber.
The forest flames awaken fear,
Into the heartwood at his core,
He gives the thought a shake.
He would like to see the spring,
After the falling snow glazes the forest.
A resident of nature,
The Redwood withstands it all.

Love is a ship,
it will break and can drown you.
It can be repaired,
but the nails and boards will always show through.
It takes time to fix,
slowly mending but never quite the same.
Love is constantly changing,
The gentle stagnation of the repairs,
The gentle stagnation of two hearts as they understand one another.
Love is a ship,
It will break and can drown you,
but is can alter itself to the perspective of the world it dwells in.