There's a freight train coming my way.

Note: I'm sorry I can't write as many articles as I used to. I've had a lot to deal with lately, and even though my mind is foaming with ideas, I can't bring myself around to calmly writing a decent article. This is the best I can give you now.

I don't do this often. Actually I've never done it. Today's article is going to be a poem. A poem I wrote. It draws it's inspiration from the pain and anger I felt after I found out my girlfriend did something wrong, she betrayed me, and now I realise she is probably only attached to me for the physical part of our relationship. It was just a freight train coming my way, but it still takes me aback. It pins me down on the railroad tracks as the train approaches...

I usually think teenage love and everything around it is pretty shallow.
It applies to me now, to the teenager I am. I still think it's shallow, but it itches, aches, hurts. I was going to write a full length article about it, but it came easier in poem form.
I've written articles about trust, time and how it affects people, happiness...the world in general. And now, those articles couldn't feel more real. Every word of it now stares at me in expectancy. That reality struck me harder than I thought.
It threw me back, and I had to re-evaluate my ideas on life, and put my entire persona back in the shadow of doubt just to come out with this mysterious (yet the subject and message are both easy to capture) poem that I present to you now:

Timber

Next time maybe she will think
Before close is to become closest

She never smokes or even drinks
But her jewelry wants some more
So cross out the gold miner’s eyes
He won’t deceive her but he’ll try

Because the guilt claws at his core
He will scratch it ‘til it’s deepest
And shun the reason ‘til the sky
Low before, will glow bright again

Songbirds cry in the dawn
Until the forest is clear
She won’t know when
To foresee her fall
She’s speechless, mute
He’s burned alive

Next time maybe she will think
Before closing off the closest

Now she shakes, ever regretting
But the dearest, never suspecting
Will never realize what she’s done
Because the love is there but gone

Next time maybe she will think
Before shutting off her own bliss

But now the stars will stare at her
And she will cringe because she knows
When the screaming trees collapse
The mute can not shout: "timber".