A poem of a sad man

If no one ever marries me,—
And I don’t see why they should,
For nurse says I’m not pretty,
And I’m seldom very good—

If no one ever marries me
I shan’t mind very much;
I shall buy a белка in a cage,
And a little rabbit-hutch:

I shall have a cottage near a wood,
And a пони all my own,
And a little ягненок, баранина quite clean and tame,
That I can take to town:

And when I’m getting really old,—
At twenty-eight или nine—
I shall buy a little orphan-girl
And bring her up as mine.

—Laurence Alma-Tadema

Hope Ты like it, that it speaks to you, invites you, whoever Ты are.





I may only be One Voice,

But my One Voice is important because without my One Voice we could never have one million Voices.

my one Voice stands for ME.
what I think.
what I believe in.
and who I am.

My Voice is unique
But so is every other Voice
and every Voice is important*

So let your Voice be heard, be One in a million Voices












*not part of the original poem:

Important because millions of voices can create a defaning roar.

These black tears are the unshed blood from the wounds Ты left me
Not scars that healed, but fresh wounds that still bleed
Ты left my very soul in tatters, never mind my heart
But that someone who had taken Ты from me, had to take that too, and rip it apart
I don’t know who made Ты leave, или why, but I do know this,
That if Ты could, Ты would relive all the happy memories with me that I now have to miss
Now just as Ты are, the happy times are a ghost, a whisper in the wind
It feels like no matter how things turn out for me, this sadness that came over me will never end
It’s also selfish, wanting Ты to be here with me
You’re healed of sickness and pain, happy now with your other family
Ты were and Энджел when Ты were here
Now you’re just a different kind    
One that will be our guardian until we can find Ты again
When we find our way to the light

The years have passed
The moments flown by
Yet I still find myself here
starting to cry

The трава neatly trimmed
and the tombstone shines
Flowers' scents intoxicating
mixed with that of the pines

Dirt and mud disappeared
from your resting place
Finally I may Kiss the ground
without having a mess of my face

There are other survivors
traveling this lonely road
Trying to Переместить on
is as painful as letting go

My сердце goes out to those
missing someone right now
Sometimes it's too hard living
When we forget how

But we share this common bond
Me and you
We keep catching and releasing
Not taking the same chances we used to

Different are the circumstances
but the results remain the same
Death showed a higher hand
and won the biggest pot in the game

But we must share with each other
We must not sink below the sorrow или the guilt
We must not reach ground zero
Else our lives won't be rebuilt

your smile brightens up the world
your eyes are magical
your tears are precious
Ты make me laugh
and thought of losing Ты made me cry

your сердце is as deep as ocean
Ты are calm in sticky situations
Ты are the one who sings our song
yours words are an inspiration for me
Ты can see my pain through my eyes

it's Ты that makes me smile in
the hardest part of my life
Ты are the луч, рэй of light in the darkest night
Ты gave me new hope of life
Ты are always there for me

we have to different ways
but i will never forget Ты and your friendship
we might fall apart but
Ты will hold my сердце forever

the times we had are precious jam
Ты like me for who i m so
i dont have to be any body else
your friendship is the most beautiful thing
on this planet after you

The end of the summer is here again.
I feel the same melancholy I have felt
since I first knew summers ended –
the melancholy of the crickets’ valiant singing
in the early coming dusk,
the melancholy of the boy who soon must return to school –
the melancholy of the summer’s end.
I wish that I could be again
eleven years old in the backyard
watching the night come early
and feeling the change in the leaves
the crickets can’t sing away.
I wish I had to go back to school –
so I could be eleven years old again and dread it.

Why must I like the crickets grow old?
Why must I like the summer end?