Poetry, Art, Life

My beloved cat, shortly before his death. He couldn’t stand to have live plants around, unless he was given free rein to eat them. By the time he was done, these flowers were nothing more then forgotten stalks.

Cujo

The writing is in my heart
but not always in my hand
the words are in my head
but rarely let loose to flow
when things get out of control
I retreat and leave it behind
but where does one go
when you need to unload?
There are so many things
that happen in this life,
so many thoughts are created
by the life one left behind.
I have yet to live in a way
that befits my soul
and yet when it comes down
to a life that I could leave,
I find no where to go.
There is a time and a place for everything,
a pebble of possibilities to roll
on a mountain top they sit,
but in an avalanche that can’t let go.