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knock knock. whose there? sadness. sadness who? there's sadness inside of me It's so dark and empty inside I don't know what went wrong. I try to find happiness but it wont stick. I try to have some fun and hope it will be done. and as you see there's no smile no laughter no singing and every time it stings me. can you feel my saddness-? can you feel my pain?

silent room full with rumbles. stares like daggers. a mouth taped shut anxiety building up strength with full force. the clock ticking. seconds feeling like minutes. minutes feeling like hours. tick tock tick tock. worlds looping over another. is this going to end? I wonder.. is my life going to end? tick tock

a wall, a maze, no escape. just thoughts cruel threatening thoughts telling you, you can't. like a lost dog in an unfamiliar neighborhood looking for his home, searching for what was lost not knowing he's lost. fading away cast away forgotten having hope, the hope that is soon to be discovered.

A family which is not my own, a rope tied around my neck as I wish to let go. family laughing but all I hear is my own cries. tears I cant share thoughts locked away hell looking like comfort. am I the cause of this? would this happen if I weren't here? a heart screaming for help a fire roaring within me. darkness consuming my body. lost. astray. send help, anybody.

two rooms, four people divided into two. separated all together. I standing out like a moth surrounded by butterflies quiet as a mouse beside loud monkeys a whole year ahead of me. will I become one of them? will they come towards me? for I am so different. I will wait, I will wait on the right date.

A dream cast as my life, Is this real? no... it's a dream a dream I would want to stay in locked in a room with no key, no chance of escaping, this false reality.

to have a thousand wishes is full of greed, when one wish is all I need. for me to feel happy and for me to feel pleased is like a light in the dark leading the way. if I could make one wish it would come true I hope I pray that my wish will lead the way.

I woke from a bird hitting the window, almost, I thought, hard enough to break it. The sun rose knowingly. I slid the sash up and stuck my head out like someone in an Italian movie. A flicker lay on its back—stunned—but it was blinking steady as a railroad crossing. Was there misery to put out? Would it come to its "senses"? I thought where were you when bark beetles killed half my trees? Then I remembered, sleepily, reading that flickers mostly eat ants. I went back to sleep for half an hour, and dreamed, as I often do, of horses. When next I looked, the bird still lay still, still blinking. Maybe, I thought, it can't roll over. So I went down and rolled it over. Terrified by my touch, it came to life and flop- hopped down the hill into some sagebrush. It didn't fly, but it didn't seem broken, either. I tried to find it later. No luck. Whether it lived and flew off, or died thrust into a bush, was, apparently, none of my business. If it were thrust into a bush, I knew the ants wouldn't wait for the guest of honor to start dinner.

Without the manifest necessity of a paint-laden brush, the motion traced by the painter's hand would mimic that moth's fragile desperation against the glass as it seeks escape into the already painted sunset. It drops to the sill periodically the way the painter's hand would drop to the palette. Then it sputters back up erratically and zigzags to indicate the horizontal nature of sunsets. On the other side of the glass, free to the air, a nighthawk enacts the same erratic striving, up and up and down and sideways then up again and falteringly up until it drops, wings folded, suicidally earthward. It spreads its wings just above the ground for the life- saving aerialist's breathtaking swoop. Air through feathers (they call it drumming) hums like a wind harp or tissue paper on a comb. The nighthawk flies like that, erratic as a bat, because that's how moths fly, and that's what nighthawks eat and what they feed their fledglings. Nighthawks build no nests but lay their eggs on bare ground. Their camouflage is so perfect you can find them only by accident. If you are out walking and the mother flies up, pulling that clichéd broken-wing trick, and you mark the spot she rose from, you can find the eggs . If you go back after they hatch, you can look right at them and think they aren't there—just some small chunks of wood. So I'm watching this nighthawk and the moth on the glass in their painterly struggles that mirror each other as the sunset reclines, aloof. This is the only moth I've seen this rainless summer. The only nighthawk too. So I open the window and give them both what they want.

Not the peace of a cease-fire, not even the vision of the wolf and the lamb, but rather as in the heart when the excitement is over and you can talk only about a great weariness. I know that I know how to kill, that makes me an adult. And my son plays with a toy gun that knows how to open and close its eyes and say Mama. A peace without the big noise of beating swords into ploughshares, without words, without the thud of the heavy rubber stamp: let it be light, floating, like lazy white foam. A little rest for the wounds— who speaks of healing? (And the howl of the orphans is passed from one generation to the next, as in a relay race: the baton never falls.) Let it come like wildflowers, suddenly, because the field must have it: wildpeace.