How do you know what being special is,
if you never really experienced it.
Only the minds of others know and crying to go on.
I am crying harder, because of I'm scared of it.
Love and special attention die like the summer flowers in the fall,
and are not the same ones, if they ever do grow back in the spring.
I do not feel special right now.
I feel like the other love in your life.
The one to always hold on, in case the first one fails.
Guaranteed to be there and distant enough to be able to survive.
Love is like a window.
You can see right through it, yet you know it's there,
but it's so fragile, that if you touch it wrong,
it will shatter.
It can be clean or dirty, which too, is necessary to make sure that the building, or your heart is secure from others.
Almost like trapping the existing heat, never letting anymore in, or the cold of the pain ever leave.
The heart swells with pain and desire.
Wanting to be needed, but never knowing by whom or how much.
Who will love a fragile heart and who will be there to nurture its despair?
To light the flame and let it be seen?
Only to dim it in time of rest, but never kindling it out.
Who are we to play with someone's flaming heart,
just to let it break and not help it mend?
To steal the flow of energy?
To rob its life from flowing?
We create a life and expect it to live.
But who really lives, in a pit that no one knows?
Who will water a homeless heart?
Like a single flower in the desert,
who asks for love from the sky, but is seen only by God.
God sends a man to water it, but he needs the water more.
Does he chose to give the water to the lone flower, or selfishly drink it all?
Who determines who needs to be fed?
Is it God or the acts of man?
A desert decides for the flower, what society decides for man.
Are you going to be a lonely flower, pretty and surrounded by nothing,
or are you going to scream, Please, Please, love me?!!!
I need the water that nurtures me, like the air of love.
Please don't leave!
I need you!
I need you!
But there was never anyone there to hear the poor flower wilt.
Is that flower red as a heart or blue like the flowing sea of endless tears?
The stream flows forever,
ending in a pool.
One that gathers to mourn the life, that is almost extinct.
You look at the lily pad and ask,
where is your partner?
It replies, what ever do you mean?
The wind says, “The frog”?
Isn't your partner a frog?.
The lily pad says, no.
He leaped away long ago.
Then why are you here, asks the wind.
I am floating.
Why though?
The sea is so large and nothing in sight.
I hope that someone will need me one day.
Like the frog who once needed a place to rest.
He was small and green, but his heart said, I need you.
You have given me a safe place to lie.
But his love soon left me,
and sought something else.
That which I never will know,
for I never have felt his love and heart pulse again, on my back.
My spine is bare and cold.
You, Mr. Wind!
Brush my back and make me feel alive!
But even you die on occasion,
and I once again,
die and lie alone.
Feel alive!
Please, don't leave me!
I don't know who you are,
or if you really exist Mr. wind,
but you are what I have.
A passerby,
A guide,
A meaning of life.
I live by you,
but I see nothing.
I live by you,
but I still feel empty.
I know you are here,
because I feel the tears below me, rising and falling.
Who are the ripples?
Who is the light?
Whether it be the moon or the sun,
will it ever be,
Mr. right.
I ask you wind,
will this feeling ever leave,
or will it just allow the flow of a stream,
to fill the pit, where I once began?
Where to now, Mr. wind?
Do you see the next sight?
Is it whole?
Is it right?
I know I will be here for a while,
but I hope like you, it won't be too long.
I need your energy.
I need your love.
Follow me.
Follow me.
I don't want to be alone.
I need you to fill me,
as you need me to breath.
The rhythm of life has yet to begin.
It only staggers with you.......Mr. wind.
Sleep now,
it's time to rest.
I know you are here,
I feel you in my chest.
Sleep tight.
Sleep tight.
I will hold you in my sight.
When I breath I will think of you.
When I dream, I will think of you.
Please, whoever you are Mr. Wind,
I cry, that one day, you will stay.
For good.
Copyright: Michelle - Summer 1999