Perhaps I should take blame for
not laying specifics.
Or perhaps, for not in the moment
doubting her loyalty and
intervening.
In the game of dares,
she to kiss another, and,
regardless of gender,
not me.

I had said before,
"our physical embraces
and emotional turmoil
boiled into heated enamor
stays in our love, our bond,
our tie."

I believed honestly that she
would be wise enough
or calm enough
to say "No, I refuse it."
I believed she loved me enough to
know the boundary is real
and that when I said, "No",
I lacked sarcasm.

Or, I was not open enough to
list the specifics of what not
to do
and instead left too much open
to her imagination.

In that moment,
as the group of friends were amazed
at her polyamorous behavior
lubricated with *****,
the fog of the mind,
and they laughed and
sent cheers outward,
I burned into the deepest rage humanly possible.

For that split second,
I debated leaving the party:
but, I was drunk, and the drive wasn't worth
such risk.
I debated yelling:
but it was her party to lead, not mine to destroy.

Instead, I sat in self-loathing,
hating myself so purely, but
I couldn't bring myself to be mad at her,
I don't think.
Again, the fog was floating.

I wanted to explode,
but instead imploded.
I wished for nothing but
to leave, to drink more to forget,
but instead I sit in rest
without sleep, concentration, peace,
but instead sit in pure hatred:
of what? Not her, not the girl,
but myself, for not doing enough,
not mattering enough.

Smell, smell that? The air of the
horse-steps and the open field
with vegetation higher than
your own head on your shoulders.
The sky? Do you see it? It's so blue,
blue is the only thing it shows-
as if whipped clean by a god,
that being you.

Could nature be ever more tame?
Could the red of my eyes find more value
in any thought than the dirt beneath you?

Has the thought ever come to her of those days with the long walks of nothing and the quiet whispers of wind and lip?

She is laying the midst of a bed, wrapped up in the deep warmth of darkness
only kissed by the cloth on her.
She's so beautiful, lying there, the only sound comes from a breath in,
a breath out,
a breath in,
...

She's due for marriage, is the big news. She has but less than a month to go b'fore
she can finally say she's taken for good.
She has no thoughts of nothing walks and whispered words.

She can't remember those days.
The day that she first fell in love? she doesn't remember.
It was somewhere in the gray part of her memory now,
was it two years ago? Or last summer?

Not the four years ago he fell in love, anyways.
And all he hears about is the whispered words,
all he can think about are long walks with nothing.

She sleeps happily, he sleeps rarely.

Sits down with the nervous ping on the skin and
sits shivering in the warmth of confidence
and the concoction of nervousness.

In a few moments, what could be but
a few minutes to that of a few hours
the two come to such minute differences.

A single move forward or the delay for
a major progression can lead to the
end-all for one or the other.

In every move comes that sense
of instant regret, that maybe I should
have done it all different.

Maybe in that idea I spun the web to
catalyze my own structure, safety, and
the units of infantry.

In silence, the heart screams against ribs
and the mind plays it off as though it
were really okay all along.

This is not the sort of sport for the weak.
This is not the sort of sport for the scared.
This is the hardest game ever constructed,
and only the defiant and the brave
will take on such a risk.

--

Very cold in here. Very cold bed with twice the width and
twice the cotton needed for a single body.

There’s a candle burning over in the corner
and the shadow plays with your hair
in the other room,
in the other life.

I can sit and call out a name but then
it breaks the silent dream we share,
or I share with you, but you not in return.

The candle grows a little more, a little brighter the light
and darker the shadow.

___________

A message to the lady with eyes reminiscent of the last moments of sunlight,
where words cannot describe that, that,
that everlasting beauty of the miracle of existence.
With the fading light (if light could fade) comes a bending of light
and that light gives life to me.

A message to a love that is not so,
I speak of you so much because that is my only way that keeps us together,
your name on my lips is the only thing of love we have.
Forgive me, forgive me, or do not,
but do not believe me a liar.

A message to the lady with the lover from a boy with a lover,
I do not feel bad for loving you as I another.
As the chess player feels no guilt of wanting a game of gambles,
or the swimmer a chance to run,
I feel no guilt over wanting to take my risks and take my laps with you.

A message to the woman with hair soft as air and browned like the gentle oak core,
I only want a few brief moments of existence.
I only want to share myself with you, and you with me,
and we can finally coalesce into something greater than ourselves.

A message to the god whom I shared only a few sentences with,
that is all I needed from you,
and all I will get.

Well, let's see it like This.

He's tall, handsome, simple to understand,
and there's me,
yeah, me, the kid who
grew up alone so he learned about
       different species of mushrooms and
       how poetry has a meter
       (Not mine, not here, but somewhere, some does).

He can tell you how pretty you are,
while you stare at him, into those shallow souls of eyes.
He'll hurt you, right? Yeah, probably.

The human nature is to tend towards simplicity and ease,
and I'm not easy to understand or simple.
He is.
He's your "Normal" that all of your friends want.
He's your athletic-scholarly(Ha!)-goodboy-Christian kid,
and then there is me.
Your friends don't like me, and that burdens you.
Because I'm different and they are judgmental, but hey,
he's a good kid (not) and he's very smart (I'm still smarter)
but he will hurt you and scar you and I will
take the scars and heal them and use my
care as a fierce weapon against the night.

the clouds loom overhead
depleting masses of water,
slowly crying over the dusty ground.

there's a boy on a bridge,
watching a river swim beneath him
imagining himself swimming,
taking the loneliness away.

there's a girl lying on a porch swing,
watching the river swiftly pour down, carrying
the tears of heaven away
and hers.

he takes a walk from the bridge
and crosses two streets,
with a notebook in his hands,
spiral binding and blue cover.

she stands up and wants to
walk into town to see the library,
and grabs only a bottle
of fresh lemonade.

he makes it a mile,
sweat is replacing the rain, the crying above,
and he just wants to make it to
the forest at the end of the road.

she misses reading-
she hasn't read in quite some time,
no poem, no story, no venture,
nothing but the thoughts she owns.

he is thirsty, for anything,
as his throat dries and his legs weaken,
the sun now welcoming itself back out,
the warmth coming up.

a car passes on the left,
the wind behind a gentle friend for her,
and she notices a faint dot
about a mile away.

he sees this moving pixel, and grabs
for his glasses to see who it is-
what faint hair, reddened,
and what does she hold?

she is nearing him
and nervous, because now
she is a witness to his charming looks
and his saddened disposition.

he is worrying-
what should he say? to the girl
whose looks, even from a distance,
are catching him off guard.

she notices his sweat,
asks if he would like a drink
and he takes the bottle,
thanking her very kindly for her generosity.

he notices her eyes fall on the-
what, the seam of his shirt, the
veins of his arm,
or the writings in his hand?

she notices his tanned face,
the gentle muscles of his arms
seeming to force the liquid
inside of him.

he asks if she would
like to read the insides,
(his internal self, is to say)
and she would.

she asks him to sit on an old train-track post,
decaying alongside the road,
next to the river of a million tears,
suddenly becoming a thousand, ten, one, none.

and so was the afternoon of Saturday,
spent on a moist post lying parallel to a
rain-filled river,
and the warm air of summer
suddenly become a little more comforting.

I wrote about you, at first, in small increments,
and gradually formed more words.
Formed more lines, more sounds, more thoughts.
Oh, my state! I called you, earnestly.
And, irony plays out that the way I finish thinking of you,
is that of before;
in words.
Maybe fortune has played something new for you to grasp hold of, as it has for me.
Maybe there is more for you than just me.
I hope so; I really, really hope so.
You are such a precious gem, and I wish I could have held your sparkling edges for a few more moments,
a few more seconds of time,
but the longer I would have waited,
the harder it would have become to let go of my possession,
my lust, my love.
Goodbye, so long, farewell!
You have dug a hole into my heart,
and there you shall stay,
but never doubt that you will stay, in some form, in some way,
inside me.

My name is etched into the bank's clay,
            all of the molecules of impure water
            will erode my letters from such a marker.
The trees die, and so do their carvings,
falling to a moldy pile of a weakened sappling.
              I will be forgotten.
              No effort can leave my name in
                     ink upon all of the trees,
                            and their trees
                                  and so on
                                           ad infinitum.
I will die; so will my name-
            How vain am I to think I am special?

My God is dead, dead, buried in the ground.
At his funeral, we wore white. Everybody.
I looked at his white beard,
and it looked much darker than I ever remembered it.
I tried to hold his hand, but I touched it for an instant and felt its cold, horrible texture.
I tried to look him in the eyes, but, dear him, they never were so black before.
My god is dead, dead, buried in the ground.
My Jesus is alive, my Muhammad beats on.
But this? How can I go without this?
How can I drink now to know that I killed this man?
How can I ever empty out the guilt I endure?
My knife spoke its way into him, and thought its way through him.
So, to God, I am sorry you died,
but with all death comes birth and progress,
and so, to, shall from you.

This whisper is on fire in between my walls,
      their thin, white tales are colliding everywhere,
but only the corners of this room are touched.
     Nobody gets to touch the vibrations.
Earlier, I was surrounded by others,
   I was feeling stuck in myself.
I felt the need to hide certain sides of myself.
       I was trying to lose myself in my breathing,
just so I would slip out of that tomb.
Just so I would get out of that clutter.
        And in this way, I was ostensibly out of focus,
so it was only me and my thoughts.
        And I still am like that,
but they have left, now, and I am by myself.
Openly honest to this room who lies withing, this
                        this style,
                        and I let my mind drift carelessly, slipping out every
                        silly and simply honest thought.
In this I find my tranquility.
I felt alone, until I was.

It's cold. Very cold. A window in the car is down, and your dad is smoking.
The turn signal flashes and pulsates a few times.
The clouds overhead zoom past in a spectacle of stellar proportions.
The car smells like tobacco, which isn't a good smell.
He mumbles something about deer to himself.
There's a humble stillness in the vehicle.
But I don't notice any of this, see,
because I have you on my arm.

How does one measure the value of a poem?
Is it in the amount of letters, or metaphors, or analogies?
Is it the underlying meaning of the poem?
Is a poem relating to Plato better than a poem of love?
Is it not in how it makes us feel?
How can we 'Grade' a poem, when a poem isn't meant to be graded?
Poems are simply meant to be felt.
Is this poem worthier than any other I've written?
How can I know? And why does worth matter?
Isn't worth relative? What is relative, what isn't relative?
Is poetry even relative?
What of me makes myself relative?
What makes me relevant?
Then, what makes my poems less relevant than one another,
when I'm not even sure any of us are relevant at all?
What makes this all worthwhile? What is our end-goal?
Nothingness, empty vortexes of desolate hopelessness:
Therefore, why must we justify writing, when we can't even justify living?

You are the worst safe.
It's like you go around, handing out the key I gave.
The only reason my words leave your mouth sprinting
is because they were inside of your;
what a dark place that must be.

We piled up dishes,
           yours and mine, both.
We didn't feel like cleaning our messes- we both had our own only we could handle.
It took months for us to realize how high the plates were stacked,
           -actually, at first, only I realized.
           -actually, you never realized.
We had plates in every crevice.
           You balanced spoons on top of the photo albums,
           I piled forks on my old notebooks,
           Knives were stabbed into the walls,
           I put bowls on top of my albums,
           You stacked plates on your bed,
           I put the cups onto my bed,
                      and we could never really sleep again.
We couldn't open old letters or see past pictures,
           (things grew easier that way, or so we deluded to ourselves)
and the plates and silverware and bowls and cups          
           ruined our lives,
so that we had to learn to live with our own messes,
           but, eventually, I realized
           I couldn't live in this mess;
I started to clean up. I made some **** good progress, too.
           It was a challenging task, but I've done well.
I can sleep most nights now,
           but sometimes I still turn and find
           a fork lost somewhere in the sheets.
When I open old folders, sometimes a teaspoon falls out,
           and I can't help but get lost in the mess again,
but it's gotten better for me; it can get better for you.
           You're not letting it, though.
You go out and buy dishes just to ***** them,
           because you get a kick out of living in a mountain of plates and silverware.
I don't think we can ever be clean again,
           completely at least,
but you've got to get rid of your mess,
           or else, you'll be just another plate in the pile.

I crossed my legs on the walkway's bench,
with stress streaming down my cheeks
splashing into puddles of dark remorse
of a mistake I should have never chosen.
I made my own silent ultimatum,
and your anger and sadness, both,
show that my ultimatum is pointless,
just as much as my love and care.
The river running swift seems able to carry me
to my final moments, and I'm almost willing,
and the rocks that divide the river
probably can also to me.
The only thing that allows my knees to bend,
and the only thing that allows my body to rise,
time and time again, with the current of your waters
knocking me backwards into a frenzied sea of despair,
is the hope that my own life can extend to
improve the lives of my children, my loves,
and in this way only, do I get the feeling
that maybe there's something worth living for.
I'm done feeling sorry for everything I do,
I'm done feeling that I'm just one big mistake,
I'm done feeling like it's my fault that everyone is sitting on a park bench,
with their heads tucked neatly into the palms of their hands,
and the only sound other than the killer water,
is the rapid inhale of marijuana,
and the rapid exhale of sorrow.

I shouldn’t be saying these words to you.
I shouldn’t be having these thoughts of you.
I shouldn’t be kissing your metaphorical neck,
Because I hate you.
My god, do I ******* hate you.
Actually, you disgust me.
But I can’t get past you.
I can’t get the smell of your hair out of my nose,
I can never wipe all of your kisses away,
I can never forget how warm your stomach was,
Or how soft your ear is,
Or the outline of your fingers,
Your bony, irritating, adorable fingers.
I hate you so much, I think I’m insane to love you.

You sat next to me, half asleep,
on a bus ride home,
with your tired eyes closing,
and your rested your head on me,
as you slowly reclined into sleep,
and I inhaled the light wafture
of the smell of your hair,
and that's all I really wanted.

Your stomach is so
            Soft and just with
The perfect, miniscule layer of fat,
So warm but tender.
Your lips have
The epitomic rondure
Of a woman’s kiss.
Your legs
are smoother than silk,
and I lay my lips,
up and down the paths
that form them.
And I follow up
To the succulent rear
And I pour my hand onto,
To pull cloth away.
My fingers paint
Every thread of hair
That stems across
Your sweaty face,
To clear your eyes,
So I can see the
Absolutely idyllic libido
Pulse through you.
Your hands hold
Firmly onto my back,
Scratching lightly across,
But bring such bliss.
Your breaths fall
Faster and faster
Out of your lips,
Into my shoulder,
Where you kiss
Away every inch you can.
Let me pull away,
But I will coalesce again,
Just to see you,
Entire you, eternal you,
And watch your flesh
Shiver and shake
In my love and
In my passionate quake.
And I place my hand
Down onto the crevice
That folds into your
Eagerly-waiting *****,
Feeling the short hair,
Covered in wet lust,
Pressing lightly enough
That I induce further joy,
As I feel me come in
And retreat out.
I bend over you,
Pull my arm behind you,
Lift you up into me,
With our lips colliding,
Your chest, with each breath,
Connecting with mine,
And you poise on top,
And take control,
But I’m too caught up
In your legs
Your arms
Your hair
Your stomach
Your chest
Your pleased moan,
Your grasping hands,
Your lascivious hips,
Your teeth biting your lip,
Your closed eyelids,
And the way you feel
When you shake so violent,
And I twist so vehement,
That, for a moment,
I’m  almost scared
That we might die,
But I saw this light
Go off in my head,
As you grabbed my hand
And my side,
And ****** harder
And harder,
Until you finally did this
Sort-of-scream,
Sort-of-moan noise,
And I did, too,
And all I remember afterwards
Was the smell of your hair
And the smile you gave me.

My hands play ******,
these five-tongued serpents
slither up your sides,
brushing their calming ends
upwards to your Wisdom
and down to your Pleasure.

How embarrassing is it to be human!-
          That we eagerly hate others
          and repel those who disagree with us (or who we disagree with, as well).
In the -ostensibly- freest country on our planet,
whose birth came with the ideology of individuals being united,
it's so ugly how quick hatred spreads like a fungus,
          covering cities in days, if not hours.
A proper, just people embrace diversity,
           adore questioning,
                   and reinforce rhetoric.
We are animals, playing drunk in the same filth we use to feed our children.

I love the slight hair on the back of your neck, that stands ***** with the sensations I bring.
I love the vascular skin of your roots, that shows brightest not when walking, but resting.
I love the contortion your ear undergoes anytime I bring a smile upon your crystalline face.
I love the way the tips of your front-most hair gives a curl outward, as if rushing away in rebellion.

All men who meet you could say they love your smile, your hair, your eyes, and the remaining plethora of options, but when you look in the mirror to see your hair, I want you to envision me. When a smile forms on your lips, I want you to look back to me. When your putting socks onto your feet and you see it's skin, I want you to recall me.  When you brush a hand over the back of your neck, I want you to think of me.
I want to be the indelible love that floats in your subconscious, leaving tiny imprints over every portion of you.
In every small thing you do, I want to be so lively in your mind that you recall me with every action.

I wish I was a painter,
           So I could bring your beauty to a canvas,
           so I could see you as I please.
I wish I was a sculptor,
            So I could form your curves in clay, to envision as I wish.
I wish I was a photographer,
            So I could capture that transient twinkle that lays in your eyes.
But, I am none of those things.
           I cannot paint.
           I cannot sculpt.
           I cannot photograph.

Yet, I can capture you in my indelible words,
       I can sculpt you in mellifluous words,
       and I can photograph you by giving you syllables that begin
               to describe the way I feel when I find your eyes in mine.

It’s been two years since I asked you to be mine,
And 9 months since I saw the tears in your eyes,
Actually, I’m wrong, it’s been that long
Since I’ve whispered goodbye
But I’ve seen the rivers flow of cries
At least a dozen more times.
And though you lie
In the back of my fabricated mind,
Living your life as a scar,
But that’s just what you are to be,
You will never truly escape my body,
Your scent will never leave my nose,
I will never exhale every breath I breathed of you,
I will never stop feeling the skin of your stomach slid beneath my fingers,
And I let them linger, just so I could feel a sliver
Of your soul in its own shell
And now me in my own hell,
But this is what I deserve.
If you think back to me,
Think back kindly.

Oh, of that scarlet succulence!
where the limits of unfamiliarity
succumb to the aloof setting
of one room containing two souls!

Oh, of that scarlet succulence!
As dulcet lips and trembling hands
dance across a field of such
unblemished skin and pouncing fragrance!

Oh, of that scarlet succulence!
Where your body doesn't contain you alone,
and mind doesn't contain me alone,
but each of us dissipates into the other!

Oh, of that scarlet succulence!
Where joy is no longer a word,
but the sound of a pant lost between
clenches of your hand and body!

Shalt not crumble, pillars,
for you were constructed of strengthened metal.
Shalt not excuse yourselves, pillars,
for you have worked hare to receive
the payload bequeathed to you.
If others shall doubt your worth in silver,
show them the work you've made in gold.
Trust not in your cracks,
because others will test them to dismantle,
but hold firm, or may my wrath
(as wrath can bring a torrential rain, but is followed with the growing of life)
strengthen you further so you may intertwine caressed patterns,
implemented beneath your own fertile structure.
As my weight,
in both mass and meaning,
crushes down on you,
relinquish not,
falter not,
and hold the position you were molded for.
Shalt not crumble, pillars, and shalt not excuse yourselves, neither,
for your pride will always flow against the uncertainty of others.

Hello, Miss,
       I wished to say
That you look adorable today,
and my today stretches backwards
              without stopping
and forwards without question,
to completely engulf all time,
so yesterday doesn't exist,
and tomorrow never comes:
       We live always in the Now,
so don't take it lightly when I say
       You look adorable today.

The world is gray, it seems.
         Beauty is simply a word,
                 not an inherent quality.
it means nothing anymore.
so ugly things are being called beautiful,
and beautiful things are not being recognized.
Color doesn't exist for others.
    One sky reflects the same,
    each flower is paltry,
    the stars above no longer glimmer,
   rivers no longer flow;
all beauty has suffocated.
    but not for me.

black-and-white are barriers to me, that limit my life,
and so I break through that,
              leaving rubble behind- dim, gray rubble.
    In every breath is beauty, ever being, too, is beautiful.
and I will surely be ****** if I will
ever let the blindness and insouciance
of others condemn me to that lifestyle.
life, living, love, lust: every thing is beautiful.

Yes, I sometimes day dream so much that I can't focus on holding a conversation.
Yes, I am terrified of speaking to you, but I don't sincerely blame myself.
Yes, I do get butterflies in my stomach simply by your presence.
Yes, I could swim for hours in the waters of your eyes.
Yes, I think you are of a beauty I see ineffable.
Yes, I write your name across my notebooks.
Yes, I do tell my friends about how I feel.
No, I don't stop after they tell me to.
Yes, I admire your halcyon ways.
Yes, I cannot resist you.
Yes, I must have you.
Yes, I love you.

Every child breathes the air breathed by ancestors fallen and predecessors to come
       All women inhale the scent of all women,
                                     and men to that of men-
Lovers swallow the air of past lovers, trying to emulate its libidinous odor.
             We share the air that was breathed by our atavistic ancestral reptiles,
and,
                          in this way,
     all beings are interlinked-
that my exhale spreads forth into the atmosphere to determine your inhale,
and thus is the way of our actions, too.

You were the flame. The flame that warmed a home to burn a village.
Tell me, flame,  with what water am I to put you out,
The same water that the sun took away from this house?

I came close to sight of a place once called Home.
I know in the crevices, our hearts beat together.
    In the grass where we rolled,
    in the trees where we climbed,
    on the roads that we walked,
            and, once, made art upon,
    in the water we ran through,
        and swam in,
             and, once, dunked each other into, and, once, poured over each other,
    on the coach where we laid,
        whispering solacing words to keep ourselves refreshed,
    In the kitchen where you worked hard to accomplish and I worked hard to distract,
    on the floor where we rested at the edge of a day,
    In the snow which we absorbed through cotton clothing and malleable minds,
    Through the flowers where we ran, skipped, and took a few resplendent bluets or chaste anemones,
   Yes - Even under the blankets where our love echoed
                                                the sheets and reverberated back to
            ourselves in a transient moment,
    By the fire we would build before a cool summer night (which we then gazed at the heavens above)
        but, under the clouds we watched and the stars we mapped.
In these crevices our hearts beat.
That is why, as you can see, our hearts beat poorly now:
        They still beat in all of those crevices.
And as I got closer and closer to approaching your house, sitting next to a driver who looked upon me realizing (but probably not understanding why) that I was in a mental breakdown,
and I whispered love words to you through a foggy glass window,
A panic knocked the air from my lungs and a fear knocked me flat on my back,
        -until, that is, we turned opposing roads and retreated back,
                    my tail beneath my leg.
And now that my chance is gone, I long to see home again.
So, and it is, so my heart can feel at ease and rest once more.
        My dearest desire, my rambunctious "Fish"
                    (If you recall that story)
Does your heart still beat alongside mine?
    Are the tears that stain your face, dripping onto the floor, forming just as quick as mine?
           Are the hours passing as slowly for you as for me?

Do you miss home?

A mass of bodies dance together,
interlocked between simple beats of an apparatus,
hands raised, jumping up and down,
in a state unity.
Strangers, who are generally frowned upon,
with absolute peace amongst themselves,
led by a man on the stage before them,
full of his own insecurities,
and the fellows below him,
with their own,
but nobody judges, hates, or discriminates,
because the moment the man on the stage produces a single beat,
a mass of bodies dance together.

Tragedy, however terrible,
has a very queer way-
It makes you stronger or weaker,
but it can never keep you the same.

I look into her gaze, when she makes the statement,
“We  should date. What do you think?”

“What do I think?” I say.
“I think you should save your breath, and your heart.
I’ll be your next mistake.
I’ll be the next pain you feel.
I’ll be the next tears you shed.
I’ll be the ghost you’ll spend a lifetime trying to escape.
I’ll be the person you adore the most, and want to rip apart.
I’ll be the next nightmare you have.
I’ll be the next constant trouble you can’t get off your back.
I’ll be everything that you don’t need.
If I could gather up all of the people I have met and who haven’t hated me,
I could fit them all into a bathtub,
And fill it up with the tears others have shed because of me.
You’re bound to suffer, because you can never love me.
Or understand me.
Just like everybody else.
And it’s because I’m different.
Because I’m strange. Weird. Eccentric.
You’ll never love me; just the version of me you wish I was.
And the moment you realize who I am,
You’ll be so disgusted with me you’ll lift your bags and walk out of the door to the house that is my life.”

She says to me,
“You never asked me what I think.
I think you’re lovely.
A diamond in the rough.
A gem I’ll wear on my chest, proudly.
I’ll drain your bathtub and dry you off, because it’s what you deserve.
And when life pushes you down,
Turn to me, because I’ll always have an outstretched hand for you.
I’ll make my heart beats synchronize with yours,
Just so you will always know that somebody shares something with you.
Even if God himself turns you away,
I’ll say that heaven doesn’t deserve us.
When nobody else understands who you are,
Realize that I do.
I’ll learn everything.
I’ll learn the way you sleep, the way you breath, the way you drink, the way you think, the way you exist.
I get you. Who you are. Who you want to be.
I’m fit for you, and you, for me.”

My heart beats with bliss,
And I smile with an excitement that couldn’t even be touched by mere words.
I turn my head to respond, but she’s gone.
The figment of my imagination has died out again,
And I’m left alone in this dark room,
With only a few words written on paper in an attempt to make myself not feel as empty as I truly am.

Creation is beautiful;
To see something being created is beautiful.
Seeing an idea take flight.

When a poet grabs a pen, and speaks in words of ink
and lets her mind open and flow in a rhythm of expression
She detaches a section of her soul
     and lays it on a piece of parchment
     with the hopes that somebody else can pick it up
     and attach it with their souls, instead.

When a songwriter forms lyrics to let an audience ingest the world through his eyes
and he pairs up with a musician, tapping away keys at the piano
that would send chills down the spine of the most heartless human,,
and the two form stories of sound and lyrics
that ripple through crowds like the detonation
     over the sky of Hiroshima.

When the lonely author writes his sad stories,
Filled with the triumphs he wishes he owned,
he feels the need to fill the paper with more,
because he is in love with creating.
He wants to do more. He wants to be more.
He always feels his actions will never fill the space it should,
     and a vacuum will encompass all of his papers,
     and even his heart,
     so he can never fill either of them as desperately as he wants
but he creates with the hope that somebody can relate.

Even when a boy and a girl hold hands,
or when they hold each other, together, in attraction
     with the pains of the world numbed by the drug of the heart,
     crossing their fingers that they will always get a refill of their prescriptions,
And their silence says more than any words could.
One smiles, and the second can't resist,
     and the creation here is love,
the best,
           and frailest,
creation of all.

As for me: I see creation as a challenge as well.
To push yourself to be something else and make something else.
To inspire, to encourage,
to be beautiful, even if nobody is facing you.
To know that when you die, death won't take you entirely,
     with the words on paper,
     paintings on the wall,
     or kisses that you gave,
you will continue to exist. You can never fully die.
Creation is the key to immortality,
but creation isn't about living forever,
it's about allowing others to see who you really are,
and who they can be.

Creation is telling stories and lessons to others,
Creation is sharing,
Creation is helping.

Creation is beautiful.