I met a friend on one fine day We sat and talked the day away I said no word, but let him tell Of what I thought were dreams unveiled. He filled the air with ceaseless sound About the world and all around I thought him foolish, 'cause he chose To show his heart in thoughtless prose While I in silence hid my mind Where hurt and pain could never find His words, haphazard, came to me And told me things I didn't see I know now what a fool I was That day we talked, I know because I know him less than I did then The things I learned were deep as skin The things I hid in silence deep He hid in words I didn't reap.

. . . . . . . .

"this has got to be one of the earliest poems i have that i've written. i was probably in early teens? have some others from seventh grade, and i'm almost postive this one was before that. this one, and another fragment of another poem i hope to find in a box someday have stuck with me for ages.. to fly so free, they fly so high until will took them to the sky..."