My heart was ripped in half,
I couldn't even muster up a laugh
Made people question me, when all
I wanted was to cry.
Now, it's different, the call
I have to make leaves me wanting to die.
He may have taken my heart,
but nobody made it drown in tears like him.
I had to say goodbye to him, but
I can't to the baby.
It's more betraying to say goodbye to my brother
who never got to come home
then to give my heart away to somebody
other then the blue-eyed soldier.
Both have caused me grief.

The tears went unchecked down
my cheeks.
It would be pointless to try stopping
them, for I know they would not,
oh would not let up!
Sometimes you just gotta cry,
let out all your grief,
stop buddling up all your tears, and
shoving them down.

I need to shut off this hope.
I need to shut off my feelings,
and forget you ever drove in my life.
I need to remember that you
drove in,
but you drove right on out.
How can I forget when ya took
something I desired to guard? but failed?
My heart...now in your hands.
I hope ya know what ya got,
that one day I won't receive my heart back,
shattered at what you did.
I need to let ya go...
How can I?
It's too hard
I need to accept it you're gone...
in another's arms.

“Not all those who wander are lost.”
-J. R. R. Tolkien

If raindrops fell and hit the ground, with the touch of a piano key, playing a beautiful melody, would rain be such an awful thing? If with every droplet that fell from the sky, came the lighthearted plucking of a harps string, perhaps would rain be beautiful in our eyes? Would it be a pretty thing?
If clouds were made of cotton candy, sweet and sugary, would clouds appear so hindering? Or would we see them differently? Or if clouds were naught but children's dreams, floating through the air, do you think that people would pause to stare, and say "Clouds are lovely things"?

His eyes are like mystical legends:
What stories they could tell.

Strands of silk is his flowing mane;
It rises and falls like waves.

Graceful is his body, and yet strong;
Majestically does he walk.

His streaming tail is like a flag;
Proudly he carries it.

Like flint upon steel are his hooves:
When he runs, fire flashes.

Powerful is his wild trumpet call;
His neigh, a thunderclap.

He travels on the wings of the wind;
The pace he chooses is swift.

Several minutes later, Timothy himself entered the hall where the students ate their meals. He was greeted by a loud buzz of conversation mixed with the clattering of plates and utensils and the delicious, overpowering smell of goat and garlic soup. The room itself was spacious in spite of the thirty or so large tables arranged across it. Huge, ornately carved stone buttresses stretched from the worn stone floor to where the ceiling was lost in shadows, far above the warm glow of lamps and candles.
“Timothy!” someone called through the noise. “Timothy, over here!”

People look at me funny.

I'm not really sure why. But I always notice. Like today, when I sat down next to a girl in my class and said hi. She answered back, but when she looked at me, the strangest look came over her face. Then she turned away and didn't look at me any more. After class was over, she rushed out as if she would do anything not to talk to me more.

This happens to me a lot.

Early in the morning when the sun was just reaching the tips of the mountains, Menegal woke. In the night he was restless and could not sleep, having many dreams of continual feelings of no escape. Throwing off the bedcover, he prepared for the next march.