Did you know that when I struggled,

He was the one to encourage me?

Did you know,

He was always there to help,

And to keep me from giving up?

I have always loved to dance,

But was afraid to be open about that love,

Because I was afraid of making mistakes.

It took me years to convince myself that signing up for dance,

Was not admitting that I was weak,

By allowing myself to enjoy,

What the rest of the school did.

The first few months were awful.

I made constant mistakes,

And constantly worried about making more.

At the time I didn't realize,

Most of my problems,

Were caused by worry.

I constantly apologized for doing something wrong.

When I danced with him,

He told me it was okay,

When I stumbled.

He helped me learn,

The steps I struggled with.

He promised me,

I wouldn't fail.

All the others gave me judgmental looks,

Because I was just learning to do,

Things they had known for years.

But he didn't make me feel like crap.

He made me feel like I had a chance.

I ended up getting more chances to dance with him,

Than anyone else.

Three major dance events,

In the year I did dance.

Two competitions.

A concert.

I danced with him for all three.

I can still remember the way he danced;

The unique way he moved.

He knew how to do the moves,

And was decent at most of them.

His dancing was sometimes,

As clumsy as he was,

And it made it more fun.

His movements were kind of jerky,

And he bounced around,

Often,

More than the dance called for.

His timing was horrible.

Just plain awful.

There were times,

His timing in the dance would get so off,

It would seem we were doing a completely different dance,

Than everyone else.

Despite all this,

He was actually a decent dancer.

When I danced with him,

He made sure I never felt bad about missing a step.

Sometimes,

I dance my favorite dance of all,

To remember him.

It is the one we were the best at.

I can remember so well,

Dancing with him.

When I dance,

I expect him to be there,

Because I know so well,

How he danced.

He was my encouagement,

And he was fun to dance with.

Even when both of us were tripping over our own feet,

Or doing everything completely wrong,

He promised I wasn't failing.

I remember,

Sometimes,

When we were focusing on the steps,

The teacher asked us to smile.

He,

Being him,

Obviously opened his mouth wide,

And made his face terrifying.

It was a smile,

Sort of.

The first few times,

I smiled like a normal person.

After that,

I joined him,

In scaring the class,

With a maniacal smile.

It's heartbreaking,

For me.

I know I'll never see that scary smile again.

We will never again argue over who tripped who.

I can't tell him we're off beat,

And get us back on.

I will never see his energetic,

Oddly jumpy,

Dance moves,

Or hear him complain,

Because he's terrified to do one of the dance moves.

I'll never again see him intercept,

Any,

And every piece of candy,

The teacher threw,

At students that weren't him.

I won't hear his loud,

Infectious laughter,

Or share his bright,

Infectious smile.

I'll never hear his simle words of encouragement,

Or see the focused look in his eye,

When he is concentrating hard on a move he struggled with.

There are so many things,

About him,

That I will never experience again.

I loved dance.

But I loved that classs,

Because he was in it.

It is because he has changed,

So many lives,

That we must honor him.

Ribbons tying memories,

Onto treasures instruments.

Ribbons tying bit of his soul,

Onto outselves.

We must honor the impact,

He made on everyone around him,

And the bits of himself,

He left behind.

He was too great for this world.

Maybe that,

Is why he had to go.

We must honor his greatness,

By remembering him,

And trying to live up,

To the lessons he left behind.

We must honor him,

By spreading love,

And memories,

And by reaching for the joy,

He taught us all to feel.

I want to say,

This will be a final good bye;

That I will stop obsessing over the fact,

That he is no longer here.

But I don't think I can say good bye,

To a legend.

I can't say good bye,

To the greatest person I have ever known.

So,

I guess,

This piece is another,

"Good-bye-for-now."

There will be more.

Hellos,

And more,

Good-bye-for-nows.

This is just one,

Of many.

I know what you are thinking, don't.

He's not worth it, he's straight.

Nothing you can do now is worth it in the end.

Follow these steps, please, for yourself.

Although, you wouldn't stop for you.

Do it for him, it's not worth the guilt.

Step One:

Put down the Yearbook.

Step Two:

Smile.

Step Three:

Move on.

What am I supposed to do?

They are gone.

All gone, never to return.

He left, walked out that door.

I could still hear his footsteps

She was his victim.

I could still hear her screams.

They, they ran. They didn't get far before the guns killed them.

I can still feel their fear.

She, the other girl, she ended it all, for herself.

I can still feel her cuts.

Me? I am sitting here, after the bomb went off.

My ears ring, my eyes sting.

The blood softly trickles down my cheek.

But I'm too numb to pay attention to that.

They, they took anything I needed, anything I wanted.

I stood, wiping soot from my forehead, with my left arm.

My right arm was limp, broken I supposed.

I attempted to move it, my muscles clenched,

shards of pain cut through my whole body, like glass.

I gritted my teeth and stopped.

It was pointless.

I was alone.

I looked up the street,

Eveything was on fire.

Billowing smoke curled up into the sky.

Symbolic, I assume, of the spirits headed that way.

Although, not mine.

I was stuck in a place, worse than Hell.

I had to fend for myself, in a country warring against itself.

I peered into the forest.

Perhaps that would shelter me?

Not if the boar got to me.

This was the start, the start of the end, that is.

The end of my "normal" life.

And I face it alone.

Why is loss so great?

We all know of it.

So why is so meaningful?

Why does it leave us so broken,

Sitting on the kitchen floor that day.

Why was I so vulnerable?

Why was I so broken,

I had forgotten.

I had forgotten what I appreciated,

I had forgotten what I missed.

But I felt it, I felt all of it.

It wasn't like before,

The shackles that bound me then couldn't weigh me down this time.

I would not neglect him, like I did my brother.

My brother was here, and he was not.

My brother tried, and he didn't.

He knew his value, my brother knew his own pain.

I knew them both, and I needed him, not my brother.

I didn't need him here, I needed him gone.

As fickle as it is, his loss helped me more than my brother's attempt.

Down here, she didn't make an attempt, she succeeded.

She didn't know her value, neither did my brother.

But she left a hole that I can feel.

Her friends soon became mine, and with them, their hurt.

I could feel them, each one.

I felt their pain, I felt their cuts.

But I didn't know them, I couldn't.

I thought I knew, from my brother.

But I never felt for my brother, I never wanted to.

But when I was there, on the kitchen floor,

I wanted to be broken,

I wanted to be ntohing more than absolutely speechless.

But I was too strong.

He was dead, not my brother, him.

I cried, but that was all.

I wrote, and that was it.

I took so much positive from him,

It drowned out the negative.

I know that it's what he would've wanted,

But I didn't know that it's what I needed.

I needed to trudge forward.

Ever forward, towards something better?

I know not.

His light went out.

And mine blew up.

Her light went out,

And then mine came here.

Their lights dimmed,

And in their darkness I bloomed.

A firey blossom that engulfed the darkness.

It took one spark,

But I'm not giving up.

I care, about every star in the sky.

I care about every candle in the sun.

I care about her, even though I haven't met her.

She didn't leave an impact by being mean.

She didn't lead a legacy of love through hate.

She knew her worth, and she showed others their worth too.

Now it's my job too.

It's my turn to light others candles.

It's my voice this time,

And it's his spark,

Her Ember,

My time to rule,

To rule the darkness through light.

My voice is not going out like my brothers.

It's going out like His, or Hers.

But not today, I have too much to live for.

I have them, and the hole to fill.

I will lift them, as she did.

She won't be forgotten,

He won't either.

My brother may be,

But I won't.

I am staying,

'Cause it only takes one light in the dark.

One light, to show that the world isn't all dark.

The shadows may press, seemingly, into every wall.

Every door may close.

Every head may turn away from you.

But no darkness is ever permanent.

If darkness is the lack of light,

Then I will be the light to start,

To start the night sky.

I will be the evening star,

So others may shine above me.

Hear my call,

Hear my voice.

They may be gone,

Remember them.

But there is a hope on the horizon.

Move forward,

Not in neglectance of them.

But in respect.

You are alive,

Do you know your value?

Love is a bush of thorns.

The floral beauty out of reach.

Love is wrought with pain and pride,

And only given to the gardner.

Love is as sharp as Cupid's arrows,

Piercing deep and striking true.

Love is an ache that cannot be cured,

Weakening the heart of all it touches.

Love is nothing but a pain,

Giving the lover a cacophonous sob.

And above all, love is a tormented torcher.

When the love is brought into the light.

’Tis bitter sweet the claws that grip.

What was once and yet never was.

A child, an egg, a feeble kip, the mother’s tears.

The sorrow, the shell of an inward flame.

The shell of an egg still blood stained.

Through the night she heard a scream.

A wretched sound, from a victim unseen.

She came, she flew, through the rainy screen.

Arrived at her cave, at the death scene.

She grabbed her egg, her beloved child.

She held it to her chest and cried a while.

What she wanted was for it to be gone.

She wanted not the child in her womb,

So it became the child’s tomb.

Wish not, want not, she new the price.

Now it was gone, not once, but twice.

Know ye now, the cost of blood.

To end one’s life out of greed alone.

You will surely end up all alone.

A simple body, a simple bark, a simple lick, then all is dark.

One may look in, and see a dog, but what another sees, is through the bog.

Another sees a friend, a brother, they see through the mask, another mother.

A little friend, a simple pup, now all is gone, I must set down this cup.

But how must I live through this pain, from what I lost, what can I gain?

How can I simply leave them bye, I know they’re out there, they didn't die.

Gone from my house into a home, what I could not provide, they did own.

For now I must lay these worries bye, until heaven, now I say goodbye.

I was silly thinking that he would like me. Fickle were the feelings in my heart that anyone of caliber would fall for something as ridiculed with doubt and mistrust as I am. Pleasant are the dreams I have of love, but the reality of a life without my significant other is wracked with torment. Not that my companions could have done anything about it, but at least they lend the occasional ear. Why does my heart so yearn for the things that I have put beyond my reach. I have established a thin line that my heart leaps over time and time again. I see so many other beings find love in the strangest of circumstances, with half the work I put in. Could it be their social adeptness? Could it be their wit and charm? Could it just be their looks? All things I aspire to have. After all, no one would really look toward the corners for love. These corners, where the shadows press into the very fiber of my being. The same shadows that children fight at night, but now they seem to be the world. It's a dark world, a lonely world. At least we have each other right? Through this hollow box where I can't even convey basic emotions

Love is a bush of thorns.

The floral beauty out of reach.

Love is wrought with pain and pride,

And only given to the gardner.

Love is as sharp as Cupid's arrows,

Piercing deep and striking true.

Love is an ache that cannot be cured,

Weakening the heart of all it touches.

Love is nothing but a pain,

Giving the lover a cacophonous sob.

And above all, love is a tormented torcher.

When the love is brought into the light

Looking, Living, Breathing, all are trivial.

What is the point of taking another breath when all are limited?

What is the point of living another day if all are numbered?

What is the goal of living a fruitful life when your fruits are squalered?

When such lively and fragrant fruits are wrought with torment?

When providing fruit for others joy only harms the bearer?

When the bearer provides but only whittles away himself?

When all hope is lost for the fruit bearer, but he must press on?

When he hides himself behind a mask and is too ashamed to dough it?

When every waking hour is spent in a discouraged and unhappy state?

When one must dance upon the flames of hatred and lie on the coals of despair?

When one waltzes to an unheard melody, only to fit in?

When society forces a young and nimble mind into the pubescent and unruly bonds of a tumultuous life?

When one grieves the loss of a love, a love of a friend, a companion?

When the greed of the world impeades on the simple imagination of a child?

Where will the line be drawn?

Where will the rest begin?

When will the laborious journey of life be drawn short?

How many numbers of days must go by until one collapses?

How many lies must one utter until until maternal instinct sees through the mask?

When will the sorrow dull?

When will it fade into the simple truth that one cannot press on alone?

When will an ill fated soul feel the joyous rebounds that love provides?

When will that escape become clear and distinguishable from anguish?

Or will it be torturous and vain, vile and tormented?

Will the seeming only escape be more tormented than the simple life the bearer led?

Will the progression be cruel and wrought with agony?

Will the possibility of leaving comfort become real and dangerous?

Or will comfort illude the bearer until death?

Until the final resting of all mortal pain?

Will that be my resting place?

Will that be the end?

I hope it comes quick.

And what will be the joy of coming home to a house full of hate and fear?

What will be the joy of bearing children when they treat as the very ground which the horses trot on?

What is the point of following dreams when the dreams of the bearer are not in reality?

When the dreams of the squandered tree are the dreams which it lifts its roots skyward and flies?

Those dreams don't come true, and it's the tree that has to know that.

The sooner the better, right?

I hope my end comes quick