The Midge There was once a midge who lived for a day, This is a rare thing for a midge you see, Most live for minutes and hours they say, But this one little midge decided, hay not me, I shall not conform to the midge way, So as he ascended to the deadly sky he hid in a tree, His friends and family continued and got so high, They could not breathe or think or fly, This little midge that minute thought, my oh my, Why do I survive as most midges die? And then it came to him, he need not try, For he was no midge, he was a fly.

Trails of a skeptical man To loose all naivety is to condemn oneself to absolute skepticism. To ignore friendly smile intended for you that shall ease nerves and settle angst. To dismiss helpful offer that may well relieve the pressure when one is in need. To mistrust a price, an offer or gift, for you are to worried that the bearer is operating in self interest. To listen else where during helpful advice despite your knowledge in such arenas will not suffice. To avoid change no matter the cost for you are too narrow to look through the fog. To not follow orders from medic of officer in fear of intention and or misheard instruction. To cover your eyes when she stares directly into them for you wish to protect and not endanger property.

Trails of a naive man To become skeptical one must have first experienced what it is to be naive. To have expectation broken and hopes stretched to such lengths as to snap them. To helplessly love another without knowing the depth of the deceit stirring beneath perfect eyes. To receive promise that far outweighs rationality, yet open arms widely. To smile, laugh and make play with others whilst you may be the item of their entertainment. To speak in a language which is not your own and to be silently mocked by those whom you address. To hold tongue while others take praise for that which is yours for hopeless acceptance. To rush in and spoil her on impulse alone seeing only her beauty and none of her faults.

How Long Is A PieceString In reply to @redfae It is often pondered and is a strange thing, The question, how long is a piece of string? This entirely depends on the master, It is the answer not question which creates disaster, For it is too narrow to prove effective, A piece of string without 3D perspective, Is an entirely useless initiative, The radius, circumference and length and essential collectives. And it is the master who decides the outcome of our variables, With toenail scissors, blunt knife or sharp teeth he shall cut the cables, To fit a job that it was thread to do, Perhaps tie a parcel and see it safely to you.

Lonely Only Three in the Morning and still I can't sleep, The horrors that haunt me keep me awake, Three in the morning and still I lie here, Trying to save you again and again, Three in the morning with tear stained cheeks, Thinking if only i had been watching the road, Three in the morning I hear the tyres squeal, Watching the burning and useless attempts, Three in the morning you used to lay here, Six feet under with the roots and the worms. You were my only and now I am lonely, The only lonely one in the bed, Struggling to sleep without scented skin, Struggling to sleep without such whispers, The way you'd save me from every day #life, I now must live it alone, no choice but to morn in black and in white, It matters not how nor when nor where, You must just know that whatever the weather, The time or the place, I, your lonely only will be thinking of you.