rewritten from a poem I found from years ago....was the original idea ever any good? don't know...

My heart is broken, and it will not heal
Last night, until I fell asleep, I cried
I cannot put a name to what I feel
Much too confused for phrases cut and dried
My dream...so overused...came true last night
But as I reached with wonder in my hands
To touch it, it was rudely....so cliche...
And boldly snatched away, and now I stand....
Oh, please don't laugh. Before you call this trite--
You were the dream that broke my heart last night.

Thoughts condensed like embers,
Amber-molten in the palm.
Was is all a dream? she said.
How much can I keep?

Thinks that she remembers.
Shuts hers eyes, stays very calm.
Puts her hands against her head.
Banks the embers deep.

Empty angry words
and doors slammed silently
and then cold and alone and mad.

Where are the words?
What is the argument?
Futile, like tire studs on a summer road.
That gritting gnawing sound,
Purposeless,
Holding on for dear life
When life is no longer dear.
Tearing up by bits that which they hold so close.
The thin line between need and not
So quickly crossed.
The thin line between security and destruction.
A thin line of sound.
Listen for it.

"Demetrius"

And there he lay,
His little cheek pressed hard into the rug,
His knees tucked in,
The padding of his diaper up behind
Above the curls,
His hands shoved close against his little chest.
So sound asleep.

He wouldn't cry, to say he missed your kiss.
He only waited, just beyond the hall;
I never even knew until I stopped
To check on him. So sound asleep, so small...

So quiet, when I laid him in his bed:
A little whimpered sigh, but nothing more.
And where he'd lain, I felt beneath my feet
The warmth of his small body on the floor.

Yes, this must be a book; no other place
Could epics, heroes, tales like this one thrive.
Such sorrow graven on a heart and face
Belongs on paper only, not alive.

Oh, say it is a book, and turn the page,
As one who passes o'er what troubles him!
The evils gather, and the scandals rage--
Then turn, for honor pales and hope grows dim.

Why cannot this one drama, like the rest,
Like those of Greece, of England, of mankind,
Be put in poetry, the sins confessed,
And then forgot, for centures combined?

We are sad actors--we must play ourselves,
And cannot put our lives back on the shelves.

See, I don't really need you when I fall.
I didn't ask for your help.
That's not what tears are.
I have my help
deep within myself.
snowflakes under lamplight,
and the smell of sheets off the line,
and damp curls on a sleeping child's forehead,
and wheat fields in southern France.
and yes, you help too, though maybe not
when you think you do.
the way your eyes match your hat,
and the way you drink out of the container
without touching the rim,
and the way you cuss when you were trying so hard
not to smile, and couldn't help it.
and you too.
the way your eyes are dark when you think,
and the way you smile at me.
don't want to give it all away, though.
see, though, my point is,
I don't need you.
I already have you.

High on a graveyard hill
Shadow and sunset,
Peace of the sleeping will,
Peace comes at last.
Rain breathes a half-heard sigh,
Waits, doesn't fall yet.
Resting, the dead ones lie.

Life comes too fast.