I'm angry

Mostly because it seems like you didn't love me enough to try. I'm angry because only a short time ago you looked at me like I was your whole world and now its over. I'm angry because all of the plans we made together will still be fun for you, because your life hasn't changed much. I'm angry because I made mistakes, and you couldn't forgive. I'm angry because you wouldn't help me overcome my shortcomings. I'm angry because you'll never hold me again. I'm angry because you'd rather be alone than be with me. I'm angry because I wasn't patient and it might have made a difference. I'm angry that trying hard didn't matter in the end. I'm angry because I'm alone again. I'm angry because you are selfish. I'm angry because you became home to me and now I'm homeless. I'm angry because I resent my friend for no good reason other than that she's still friends with you. I'm angry that you made everything seem like my fault and I believed you. I'm angry that it hurts this much. I'm angry that you want to be friends. I'm angry that I don't know how to let go. I'm angry because I want to talk to my best friend about how hurt I am, and he's the one who hurt me. I'm angry that I'm back where I started. I'm angry that you don't seem sad enough about it ending. I'm angry that I have to miss people I've become friends with. I'm angry that I think of you before I open my eyes in the morning. Most of all, I'm angry that despite all of this, I still love you.

London

How is it that one can feel homesick for a place never known as home- for a place loved for so short of a time it is still a stranger. But this place embraced me like a mothers warmth, and felt as home like no other. I lived there once, in another life perhaps. The city is an old friend, welcoming me back from a journey of many lives. As I walked its streets, this city crept into my sould and made a place that binds me to it now. For after it, nowhere else feels quite as welcoming, and I feel lonely outside her warmth, miles away from belonging.

Birches

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-coloured
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground,
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm,
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate wilfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
-- Robert Frost