Small Child

Small child,
So fragile
But so strong.

Going to save the world,
Going to rule the world.
But death will come,
Must come to him
And death itself with die.

But for now,
He will sleep,
Cradled in loving arms
And the world will wait
To love and hate him.

Home,
Back where I long to be
Surrounded
By family
By friends,
Though there remains
This desire
To pull two worlds together,
I shall remain content
With what I am given.

So much time.
So long to spend
Home.

Every time I go to make tea,
There is this paralyzing fear
That there will be no hot water,
And my life will spiral
Into a never-ending torment
Of chaos and destruction.

The lonely sound
Of a mournful wind
Blowing erratically
Through the shifting trees.

That's what it sounds like
When I try to whistle.

Yeah,
I wax poetic.

I hate people.
They remind me of joy.
They recall old friends
Old memories and moments.

They remind me that someone cares
That I can be happy.
They remind me of all that is good.
And I just want to run away.

I really despise people.

I miss your arms around my shoulders.
I miss your heartbeat.
I miss that grin I always tell you to wipe away.
I miss your eyes.
I miss your soothing hands.
I miss your strength.

I miss you.

And this isn't a very happy poem,
Not for an anniversary,
Not until you replace every single "miss"
With the much-too-short "love."