I sit here, typing, without a planBecause thoughts and feelings have been piling up inside the confines of my mind.Today, I listened to a woman speak about her child,Lost at 17 to the icy grips of death.One wrong move and her life was not spared.Later, I asked someone who knew her what she was like."Kid was a mess," she said. "Drugs just made it worse."I went home thinking how precarious life isAnd about how many things I would miss,Were I to die today.Being at the brink of submitting myself before,A new perspective is appreciated.I can look up at the sky and think about how I'll miss it,And not wonder if it's the last time I'll walk under it.I'd miss hearing people laugh.
There's still food on her plateShe hasn't eaten in daysHer eyes are tiredShe hasn't slept in weeksHer arms are coveredShe hasn't shown them for monthsHer body is coldShe's been dead for years
I am lostFloundering in uncharted watersOr perhaps they have been charted;I know I've been here beforeWatching someone else's lips formThe exact same words.I know what I've done wrong.I know I have yet to fix it.But what I don't knowIs how.How do I fix this brokenHead of mine,This broken soul of mine,This broken mind of mine.
The night is come, but not too soon;And sinking silently,All silently, the little moonDrops down behind the sky.There is no light in earth or heavenBut the cold light of stars;And the first watch of night is givenTo the red planet Mars.Is it the tender star of love?The star of love and dreams?O no! from that blue tent above,A hero's armor gleams.And earnest thoughts within me rise,When I behold afar,Suspended in the evening skies,
Youth of delight! come hitherAnd see the opening morn,Image of Truth new-born.Doubt is fled, and clouds of reason,Dark disputes and artful teazing.Folly is an endless maze;Tangled roots perplex her ways;How many have fallen there!They stumble all night over bones of the dead;And feel--they know not what but care;And wish to lead others, when they should be led.
"Hope" is the thing with feathers --That perches in the soul --And sings the tune without the words --And never stops -- at all --And sweetest -- in the Gale -- is heard --And sore must be the storm --That could abash the little BirdThat kept so many warm --I've heard it in the chillest land --And on the strangest Sea --Yet, never, in Extremity,It asked a crumb -- of Me.