down, through all the stories we tell

down, through all the years we sell

down, through all the arguments we yell

down, into hell

where we can be pulled apart by language

I will take my own advice

and do what’s right.

If this simple life

is mine

I will live it well.

the oak tree

gives up

its dead dying leaves

each season

it loses its beauty

and never complains of loss

it feels lighter

naked

in the cold

new

each year.

What does it all mean?

Can language tell me that?

Must I abide by the seasons?

this short life can be lived in harmony

or it can be an unpredictable story

Some years are traded for lifetimes

Some arguments

won without yelling

We whisper

who we are

in secret

We know, and the world knows too, without words

Hell is where the heart is

it’s your own personal pain

the more pain we can feel

the more power we can have

look around and see

the weak humanity

people do not want to feel.

What giants

they would be

if they tortured themselves

sadistically

for something that mattered

beyond

their own personal comfort.

Discipline

must lead

but not for need

of perfection

to be something

I don’t know tomorrow

to be surprised

like a rainbow sunrise

crying for promises

I made to myself.