The Greatest Good

First I was an animal, a jungle cat so wild.
I fought each day.  I sought new ways,
My prey to beguile.
I then became a boulder on a grassy mountain's side,
Covered with fuzz.  I loved it because
I did not have to try.
I changed into a plant, a beautiful petaled rose.
My defense was beauty, I could see
Twas the best I'd ever chose.
A petaled rose, a boulder, a jungle cat that fought.
Each had worth, no matter their girth.
The same they were not.
I then sat down to tell a tale about these parties three,
How each had part, and found their start,
In the heart of me.
But when I lifted hand to put ink down on page,
My Muse took me, carried me on,
To another age.
Twas a peculiar age.  Every living soul
Had their vice, had their vocation,
Had their own set goal.
Their goals were good and lofty, they each aimed so high
They had drive too.  What they didn't do.
Was care for each other's try.
I looked upon their beauty. I viewed their talent great
I started to weep. For all their great power,
They left so much to fate.
I stuck out my tongue, I caught a tear, I had a salty taste.
In my mind, a gentle, kind, beautiful thought
Was placed.
If you write a hundred million words, and, with them, 
Help to save one soul, you will have done the greatest good,
And exceeded the highest goal.

Adam Scott Campbell

I Made A Butterfly

I made a butterfly.  I breathed him to life.
I watched him flutter away.
A part of me wished he'd fly far and well.
Another, that he would stay.
A third part of me, the strongest yet,
Wanted, him, to be,
For oft in life I have this wish to be
Anything but me.
Whose butterfly have I been?
Do any wish to be me?
Or are all glad they aren't confused, like me,
When they look around to see?
I made a butterfly.  He said to take heart.
I had not known I could.
But if I could create such living beauty,
Maybe, probably, I should.
When I make another butterfly,
Will anyone take note?
Or will no one remember the precious, sacred, wondrous things
I wrote?
She was a sorrowing friend of a friend.
A friend that pulled her close,
Brought her to me, to hear inspiration.
I gave her another's dose.
For when words come without forethought
To the mind I own,
I know that Someone Else has planted
The words I reap, all grown.
I made a butterfly.
My butterfly saved a life.
As another sought to end her own,
Suffering in her strife.
She then went, got on a train,
And seeing a stranger, smiled.
This stranger, suffering too,
Will now still live a while.
It's hard at times to try, again,
Not knowing, always, why.
But when you see someone in need,
Pause
To make a butterfly.

Adam Scott Campbell

Garden Of The Heart

I had unending happiness.
It slipped out of my hand.
I wanted to hold tighter,
But without strength to stand,
There was naught to grip
Eternities my hand spanned.
I felt that I had wrecked
Every glory God had planned.

Downcast and fainthearted,
I could not see my goal.
Motivation, once an asset,
No longer played a role.
Excitement for the future
Sadly wore a hole.
Such reaping was all mine,
For all the lives I stole.

I had everything required.
Yet, a heart of greed
Would not be satisfied
With just the basic needs.
And so in my heart sown
Two very different seeds.
One grows the greenest garden.
One, a forest of weeds.

I love my beautiful garden,
Full of life all through.
Digging, and pruning, and keeping,
Growing life anew,
These are joyful things
That I just love to do.
Every few days I give
A worded plant to you.

But my weedy forest,
Just across the way,
Will breach the garden wall
With a vine or branch today.
I must then take some tool,
And ensure weeds don't stay.
It has power to depress me.
I yet must not delay.

Perhaps you, as well, midst
Paradisiacal green,
Find that weeds encroaching
Infringe on heaven's scene.
Your heart, also,
Knowing both kind and mean,
May be weed enshrouded,
But it is no menial thing.
Tis worth the weeding.
Tis the heart of queen or king.

My Vow

I threw it down, I wiped my hands,
I turned and walked away.
My every secret, all my darkness,
Each teardrop displayed.
So sick of carrying it all alone,
In order to survive,
I was required to be vulnerable
So as to stay alive.

Twas years ago, my darkness now,
More deathly than before,
Is written one page at a time,
Words my heart has in store.
No matter how great the number,
How many stanzas show,
There are more waiting in the dark
Whene'er I dare to go.

Tis the light that loves me.
Tis the dark that seeks my life.
Since both have root inside me,
I am embroiled in strife.
One candle in the darkness,
Two hands that clench it tight.
I am attracted to the darkness,
But I will not release my light.

Tis a war that has never failed
To be waged night and day.
I cannot force those I harm
To return, or to stay.
But if light from my candle,
Travels all the way to you,
May it help you on your journey
And give hope to push on through.

I give you, dear Reader,
A promise and a vow.
I will not quit the fight,
Not ever, no matter how.
Tis an eternal battle.
I have an eternal soul.
I will keep pushing for
The highest of any goal.

Tis the goal I've ever had
Through my most painful strife.
Tis the purpose of my existence.
It is eternal life.

Fly Through The Storm

Sometimes I feel I'm doing alright.  Like my feet are finally set on the right path for me.  The path that will bring me greatest happiness, at the end and on my way there.  Sometimes I like what I feel.

Sometimes a natural disaster occurs right in the middle of my path.  I can be watching it happen.  It can happen to the spot I'm standing on.  

I can feel every bit of it.  I can bow my head and let the misery wash over me.  I can walk into the disaster, and reach out to others.  I can save lives with a word, or a hug.  I can help.

I can numb myself to the pain.  I can step outside myself and bypass my life for a while.  And when I return, people are hurt, and I'm standing here wondering how I can help when I cannot empathize.

It ought to be an easy choice for me.  It ought to be.  Yet so often I numb myself in self defense. When I don't, lives are touched, I can see clearly, and the hurt is felt to my core.

Much is stored here.  I know so little next to many others.  But I know enough to get up when I fall.  I just fear that others are pulled down with me in my falling.  That hurts worse, watching it happen.

I know enough to understand that you fall, too, that it hurts for you, too.  Maybe you are like me.  Maybe you get sick of falling, and sick of struggling back up again.  Maybe you wish to fly.

I do, too.

This body wherein my spirit dwells has been through a few things.  Relearning to walk is an adventure I've undertaken many times over.  The thought of flying with it is enticing.

Flying with my mind is even more so.

Flying with my spirit has proven to be the most difficult.  Believing in someone else is far easier than believing in myself.  Something I work on, by pushing forward however often I stumble or fall.

I will teach myself to fly through the storm.  It may take a little while.

We're getting there.

Adam Scott Campbell

One More Step

A bottle of ointment.  A wound so deep,
Working its magic, awake or asleep.
Be there some way for said wound to heal?
Can soul, uncaring, be retaught to feel,
Or has wretched fate already been sealed?

A musical instrument, perfectly tuned,
Played for an audience, turned deaf all too soon.
Always, it still plays melodious art,
Granting non-hearers a chance to restart
Every broken, beaten-down heart.

Where is the instrument to vanish the wound?
What is this ointment, so carefully spooned?
Why do I feel tis I that hurt skin,
My wounds sinking further and deeper within
A soul enamored and bound tight by sin?

I had a choice, the dark or the light.
Neither held upper hand in the fight.
Depending on me, either held sway.
I'd live in the night and live in the day,
Not knowing that both couldn't stay.

I'd have to choose.  So choice was made.
Never, not ever, has it made move to stay.
Ever twill alter the path tis on.
My firmness, my tenacity gone.
Ever I long for a new, brighter dawn.

One thing left.  One thing.  Just one.
Though a good part wishes but to be done,
Tis as before when I, daring, leapt.
Trait of Stick-To-It, the one thing I kept.
I reach out again.  I take one more step.

Adam Scott Campbell