January I’m full of hope,
a bottle of kindness filled to the brim.
February compassion takes a dive,
the tree of understanding needs a trim.
March I’m in a dilemma,
the outlook grim.
April the rain floods the drought,
flower buds sprout.
May I’m hurting,
empathy knows what it’s about.
June I’ve fallen,
bleeding love and pain,
reaping the morbid gives me a migraine.
July I’m crushed,
the fire started by internal combust.
August I’m rushed,
lured in by siren lust.
September is overwhelmed,
I don’t know who to trust,
the years to my youth are gathering dust.
October is madness entertained,
my relationship to God is strained.
November is arranged,
something dark forever has changed.
December forms a decisive scupture,
I am who I am,
I’ve played my turn,
*I think it was the day she decided that in order to love someone
else with her whole heart, she had to love herself first, the day she walked out.*