The Sound Of Loneliness, and Stolen Poetry

I sat on a rock,
at the edge of a lake,
in the mountains.
Under a tree,
whose roots were exposed.
Water had washed the dirt away.

The water was perfectly still,
you could see the beautiful reflection
of the mountains, perfectly.
The moon gave a soft light,
made it all look... purple,
and the selfless snow,
threw it all back.

The mountains were huge.
The mountains were beautiful.
And as I sat listening
to my own loneliness,
I could feel something more.

And as Great Lake Swimmers played,
I could see myself,
walking out to the middle of the lake,
naked,
exposed,
alone,
and just staring at the field in the sky,
and seeing infinity,
and then.... I     relized,
That      the world     IS    beautiful,
and that I    had forgotten that.

mountain lake

I drove to a lake in the mountains.
The water felt cold on my toes.
But the thought of her,
kept me warm.

The bird that flys under your car, and for one minute you care, and hope you didn't kill it, but soon, you forget you even saw the bird.

He is the flightless bird,
a beautiful thing,
with a broken wing.
He skimpers out,
into the road,
just as a car flys past him,
he flaps his wings,
but he won't move fast enough.

You look to the beautiful girl,
sitting by you.
You pretend to care,
about this little bird,
this little helpless creature,
that has never been loved.

And you respond to her silence,
with silence.
But then the bird is forgotten,
and your meaningless conversation,
about whatever the hell you were talking about,
before you forgot about the little ones
before you paid attention to the birds,
continues.

The little bird, laying in the road.
A broken wing,
and a broken leg
Lonely and afraid,
forgotten,
abandoned.
Lays hoping someone will come along,
and show it a bit of kindness.

As you sit in a movie,
The little bird is crying.
As you drive,
you stare at this beautiful girls chest,
instead of her eyes.
Your Attention is to the body of the girl you want to fuck,

The little bird is screaming.

You just want to take her home.
The little bird just wants a home.

As you come driving past,

And smash, the little thing, that was never loved.

Untitled no. 9

I just want to lay in the grass
on a clear,
warm night,
looking at the clouds
and just hope,
that some birds,
will fly past my eyes.