I want to see,
I want to be,
everything that you feel.
everything that
I couldn't understand to feel
through the hot embrace of
sympathetic empathetic enthalpy

Through the heat,
we shall see
everything that there is to be
(with things words can't free)
all of the sadness or madness you couldn't decree

With the best form of chemistry,
I hope to alleviate it
with
Sympathetic Empathetic Enthalpy

Well, unfortunately, I am completely comprised of empathy
and my heart is so broken seeing yours break because of me.
It's a vice grip just inside my rib cage ******* with my heart,
in some moments, it stops and I think it won't start.
All I want is to make everybody happy,
but that's not going to work if you want me;
and if that is all that drives your soul,
you will be let down and it will take a toll
on your ability to face the day and conquer it with a smile.
I know that you've done everything; gone beyond the extra mile.
I know there are so many good things that it's almost hard to say no,
and then sometimes, goodbye hugs are almost impossible to let go.
However, I've thought hard about this, since knowing you,
and I know that I would not be happy, and that is sadly true.
I can honestly feel how much that truth hurts,
it hurts more than I can describe with any words.
I feel guilty; I always wish you to have anything you seek,
and I'm a sucker to please people; it's what makes me weak,
but if all you want is my unconditional love for you,
that is not something I can give, not something I can do.
I can't be in a relationship if my gut tells me not to,
and I get a negative instinct when I think of us two.
I know you want to take care of me and just love me,
but I feel so wrong taking and not giving back freely.
I know you know how I feel and I wish you'd see I can't change,
I just want to stop hurting you, and stop our chest pangs.

I am sorry for the friend zone, but I can't cross these lines,
there will be another who will save you, everything will be fine.

Dear Sasha,
A war is coming,
I am aware of its gravity and I don’t know if I am ready,
To answer your question in your last letter,
Why do I cut so deep?
It’s because I know how words can cut deeper than any sword,
Don’t give me the ******* that,
“sticks and stones can brake bones and words can never hurt you”
Sticks can snap your bones,
But words can snap your spirit and mind,
And these times are ******* my spirit,

“Time heals all”
but these wounds will take longer
So don’t tell me words don’t affect my life
If someone sits there in your face saying,
Your stupid and irresponsible long enough,
Torturing you constantly with their literary daggers,
You start to believe it,
You start to feel,

As much as I want to shrugged it off,
It weighs me down,
This curse called empathy,
A curse of a pacifist,

I take every word to heart,
And it ****** me off,

I know I am not what they say,
But this name tag on my uniform is all I have left of my identity,
I’m not sure if It’s true,
But I can’t help believe it anyway,

Don’t tell me to shrug it off,
Cause you can’t remove these battle wounds,
If you keep chiseling at this stone pillar it will crumble,
Letting loose my dogs of war,

I cut deep,
Cause I know the strength of words
I follow the golden rule,
So don’t make me use these literary daggers,
to leave lasting marks on your psyche,
Cause trust me I have,
And I can rip apart your world and all of its glory,
Cause I was trained to do so,

Make you doubt your identity,
cause mine was taken,
Cause it’s easy to make my pain…. yours,
But that would be too easy.
I will turn these daggers upon myself,
Because “If you have nothing nice to say don’t say anything at all”
If you are struck down,
You want to strike back,

These words and thoughts don’t just disappear,
These arrows are sharp and drawn,
I have to let them go somewhere,
Ill cut and stab myself before I hurt another,
I’ll take your pain for you,
No matter how much you don’t like me and try to tear me down,
I will not lash out,
I will not strike back,
Because that would make me no better than you,
I will cut myself before I cut you,

I cut myself so deep,
Cause I get over the pain,
The scares stay but the pain doesn’t,
As I finish this letter the anger has already left,

“you’re only as happy as you make yourself out to be”
So I will take the full force of their swords,
because I won’t dwell in the pain,
So I am going to move on from the hate,

So why do I cut myself so deep?,
because I know now I am strong enough to take it,​


Yours truly,
The empathetic warrior

So we live In a society that takes wonderful ***** of energy,open minded wonders of powerful source light,and teach them to live In a society that takes wonderful ***** of energy,open minded wonders of powerful source light,and teach them to be subservient obedient fearful and judgemental,we were not born into pride and ego,force fed negativity and apathy,this is why I am just going to say this,mass brainwashing to keep us dumb,free thinking is frowned upon,but one thing they can never take is hope,we were born to break the chains and free ourselves and others around us,positivity lifts and negativity corrupts,so forgive yourself and those around you,anger and fear is what these lower vibrational beings want

If your environment is negative remove yourself,and strive to be positive,your spiritual growth depends on it,we are here to help not judge,calling all caring empathetic souls to come together,it is now time for us to levitate the negative,instead of waiting around for a positive change be that change today

Calling all LightWorkers,indigo children and starseeds let's make sure things like equilibrium and 1984 simply do not happen,peacefully and lovingly, Martin Luther King and John Lennon had a dream,and so do I,but this dream is my reality ❤️❤️❤️ o be subservient obedient fearful and judgemental,we were not born into pride and ego,force fed negativity and apathy,this is why I am just going to say this,mass brainwashing to keep us dumb,free thinking is frowned upon,but one thing they can never take is hope,we were born to break the chains and free ourselves and others around us,positivity lifts and negativity corrupts,so forgive yourself and those around you,anger and fear is what these lower vibrational brings want

If your environment is negative remove yourself,and strive to be positive,your spiritual growth depends on it,we are here to help not judge,calling all caring empathetic souls to come together,it is now time for us to levitate the negative,instead of waiting around for a positive change be that change today

So to ravage these eager glimpses of grins so restricted
Will these hungry hearts ever get their fill?
I find anorexic love is such wasted time
It’s like martyrs without a meaning
A world apart
Three worlds from your heart
Forever is such a crowded sound
vibrations of time compete with the voice of a stoic.
Despair is the birth of a constant decay

The concept of a whole person is an enigma that evolves within a culture . Often it is not a transitive concept and can only be conjuncted within it's social setting . In fact the realities of social fragmentation make most all concepts of a whole person universally inapplicable .

Literature is often a good tool for developing an understanding of a culture and it's inclinations . In a cultures folk tales , plays , and fictions you find authors making a deliberate attempt to portray the basic dramas of their society .

Greek myths are a vivid example of this ; they are literally frought with characterizations . In their development these multitudes of characters weave into an elaborate tapestry that depicts the developing Greek moral ethic . The intricasies of the analogous content are brought across in a multitude of forms . Names were very important and a major force in clarifying the concepts being presented . The multitudes of characters portray a multifaceted understanding of the human psyche . The chauvinistic banality of their culture and it's gods is graphically depicted against the backdrop of their developing ethics .

It is difficult for a modern man to construct a vision of a whole person from a strictly ancient Greek point of view . The obvious anachronisms envolved make such an attempt partially ludicrous . Contrarily the bulk of their characterization paints a vivid picture of their primative social state .

Of course while the Greeks were muddling through the multicolored quagmire of human frailty many societies where learning to master the powers they had developed through centuries of strict adherence to religious and social mores . The development of their socially biased realities make many Greek nuances seem decadent anachronism . Rather than deitizing their baser natures as the Greeks had thay had learned to master them and turned to new paths to clarity . Spiritual pragmatism and lack of comunication nullified the social attributes of many of these extrapolations on positive orientation .

Jung preaches that man has an innate need to assimilate all external sensory perceptions . I find this untrue . In fact I find it self abortive . Human beings have a complexity factor that is individual and must be protected from overload ; man's moral ethic is a tender and deludable feeling directed by empathy . In the hectic world of modern mass media this tender individuality can become dwarfed by the percieved need to obtain social acceptance . Whole civilizations have become deluded by the flow of their complexities into an outright denial of their moral ethics .

I find this partially estranged condition prominent throughout social history . Children are brought up to respond to a vast realm of presupposed social ideologies and are not allowed to venerate themselves until much of their conscious matrix has been established . This of course makes self evasion an easily attainable goal . Sometimes politically speaking the actual goal . The mind satiated by it's social framwork is the ideal tool for a socialistic or tyrannical government .

To me the value of social history lies not in it's application as much as it's illumination . All the fragmented pockets of human coalescence should instill an understanding of man's posibility factors . Man's inability to supersede his developing anachronism may well be the cause of his annihilation .

Modern man has learned how to use tact in instilling the acceptable social mores . Solviet psychiatrists have spent years on perfecting these social sublimations ; children learn how to make their personalities conform to the accepted mean . I think that the true nature of a well rounded being lies in an ability to reject the fragmental nature of these instilled mores and develop a more universally acceptable social orientation . Does the son of a ku klux **** member have to hate blacks ? The obvious answer is no ; contrarily socially acceptable orientation is a product of environment . This is the pitfall of man's evolution as a race ; his inability to rise above the quandary of his immediate surroundings with all of their overwhelming complexities and demands to become a cognizant and empathetic being . There in lie the keys to his future .

This does not necessarily define the well rounded person . A well rounded person must be able to cope with his immediate surroundings withoutan abject denial of his empathetic being .

I believe well roundedness lies in thoughtful orientation and a well centered understanding of self . One need not be socially active as long as they are thoughtfully cognizant . Obey the golden rule ; you can not allow your objective orientation to supersede your subjective empathy . You can't allow yourself to be thwarted or overcome by your peers into being something they might want to make you because temptation may overwhelm them and you will become a transient tool in their succession .

i'm barely sorry that i hurt you
i didn't even love you
and now you're giving me
passive aggressive silence
hoping i'll give a ****
darling, i know that trick
darling, don't waste your time
darling, be careful
just because it's working
doesn't mean i care
it just means i miss you
r attention

i know it isn't fair
you did everything right
you were good to me
but everyone's heart
belongs to someone
and mine was already
taken

so when i call at two am
don't pick up
you're just another
*******.

There's a difference between looking and
seeing.

You can look at me,
but I wonder more
what you see.

Brown eyes,
brown hair,
barely more than
five feet tall;
my feet are small,
as are my hands;
my teeth are straight,
thanks to braces;
shoulders been broad
since I swam,
but my figure
is much less athletic
than it used to be.

I could look
at myself
and point out
a million flaws.
My forehead is much
too big for my liking,
my cheeks are too red,
my top lip is so
skinny it barely
exists,
and, if you ask me,
my waist line
could afford
to look a little more
like my upper lip.

My looks are far from perfect.
Not saying I'm hideous,
but I don't look
in the mirror
to find
America's Next Top Model,
or anything close,
at least not until
my face is perfectly painted,
flaws concealed under
a combination
of moderately priced makeup and
a rather crafty hand.

When I look,
physical imperfections
and inadequacies
stare back at me.
My overly expressive
light brown eyes
give me an
omnipotent glance,
and they beg me to
turn away,
to close them,
to put them to sleep
so that I can
see.

When I see,
it's like a whole new me.
I'm a human being
whose physical flaws
are diminished by
an overly giving, compassionate
heart,
a brain
filled of logic & curiosity,
a chest
swollen full of
endless giggles,
a throat
storing sarcastic words mixed in with
empathetic phrases;
down within me
I see
the woman
who still at times
looks and feels
more like the girl
whose heart has been broken
too many times to count
but still, despite her
womanly pessimism,
yearns optimistically
to love again.
Within me I see
a woman with confidence
and also insecurity,
ambition and fear,
tranquility and rage,
hope and despair;
I see dreams,
wishes,
prayers,
meditation;
I see a beautifully
complex soul
trapped in a world
that begs it for
simplicity and
conformity.

I guess when I look
I only get a glimpse
of the body
that feels the need
to be perfect,
to work out a little more,
to weigh a little less,
to fix her hair the right way,
and to dress in the right clothes.
The self-conscious me
who still fears being weird,
who cares what others think,
who worries if my parents are proud.

But when I see,
out comes the woman
who says
**** the status quo,
I can't be put in a box,
I'm beautiful the way I am,
and nothing stands
between
me
and achieving
my
dreams.

When I look,
I don't see,
but when I see,
I see me.

I feel the brim of my glasses graze my nose,
and I know,
even once I take 'em off,
my vision
is better
than ever.

At the mailbox, again:
“Who loves me, baby?”
Well, let’s see: there’s a flyer from Mercury Insurance,
Reminding me that most middle-income customers
Save an average of $4 million smackaroons when they switch too.
The Penny Saver USA.com is here,
Thank God, almighty!
So now I know that Thomas Roofing & Paving
Is having a special on 20-year leak-free flat roofs;
"All work guaranteed & insured.
No job too big or small.
Free estimates/Emergency services/License # I8U-69."
And thank you, Jesus,
For another $4.99 Farmer Boys 3-Egg Breakfast
Combo with Coffee coupon, and that
Little Caesars Hot-N-Ready, $5.00 cheese or pepperoni,
Mae-West-“why-don’t-you-come up and see me sometime?”—mailer. And, of course, another technology Siren’s song:
Verizon FiOS delivers entertainment this big,
Dish me up some dish NETWORK, $19.99 a month . . .
Are you ******* me?
For 12 ******* months?
AT&T;: whack me off on 120 channels.
DIRECTV.com - DIRECTV® Official Site‎
Worry-free 99.9%  . . . cue Joe E. Brown,
"Some Like It Hot“ Osgood:
"Well, nobody’s perfect!"
Time Warner/Sprint/T-Mobile;
And ******* Leather, Polk Street, San Francisco.
******* leather?
Must be for my neighbor: that ***** ****!
And here’s the weekly 8-page color fold-out from Stater Bros:
Lowering prices every day, large cantaloupes
(Jessica Lange, are you back?)
10 for $10.00, 32 oz. Gatorade
Or 24 oz Propel in 30 assorted varieties @ 79 cents
+ CRV: California Redemption Value?
Nice euphemistic cover-up for a TAX.
Nice, nice, very nice, CA elected state officials;
Nicely done, Sacramento.
Everywhere else in the country you get real money—
A fixed number of pennies, nickels, or dimes—
For your plastic bottles and aluminum cans.
But in California, the licensed recyclers
Get to pull the market price out of their *** each morning.
California Redemption Value?
What ******* genius government kleptocrat thought that one up? Conspiracy Alert: who gets all that CRV money?
And what are they doing with it?
Feeling plain, Jane?
Marinello Schools of Beauty, want you,
Offer you hands-on training in cosmetology,
Skin care esthetics, manicuring and vaginal deodorizing—
Just kidding, Babaloo.
Food tip for the Third World:
Never try to write poetry on an empty stomach.
Sizzler 6 oz juicy & succulent.
RENEGADE DEAL:
El Pollo Loco guacamole chicken sandwich,
Coupon free, small drink and small chips,
When you purchase a guacamole or jalapeno sandwich,
includes pepper jack cheese and a southwest sauce.
Gardenas sandia con semilla, 7 lbs 99 cents.
GARDENAS: “en precios, servicio y calidad, nadie nos iguaia.”
Bud Gordon’s Quality NISSAN:
One at this price after a $1500 factory rebate.
TERMINIX: get them before they get you!
The Kingdom Animalia, Phylum Arthropoda, Class Insecta
Bug up my *** again.
And a form letter from the VA
Asking me to please update my whereabouts.
And a form letter from the VA asking me
To please update my whereabouts.
And miles to go before I sleep.
Bite me, Mr. Frost!

An outing, at last.
I am going for a walk around the inside of my gates.
I live in one of those gated over-55 lunatic asylums.
There are gates. It is gated. Get it?
GATED! We feel safe here.
Probably a good thing at our age:
Self-imposed institutionalization,
Putting oneself in an asylum to ferment and die.
The fact that so many of us
Need it so bad at only 55
Says something itself about the current state of
Baby Boomer metal-fatigue.
I am now standing at the far end of the golf course.
I wait at the far end of the 18th Hole.
A ball bounces past my head and
Rolls off past the green into the far rough.
The 18th Hole is perched atop a small plateau,
Out of sight, far above the horizon for anyone teeing off.
I am Puck, invisible and impish.
I pluck the ball up.
I scamper to the green.
I pop the ball into the hole.
Which is better than popping a hole in the ball,
Surely, kind of a drag,
As we were once fond of saying.
Deflated Ball.
Deflator Maus.
OPERA can be ****.
Bodice-ripping corsets, whorehouses and naked ******!
Hardly what you might expect from
A night with the Welsh National Opera,
But they found their way into this production of "Die Fledermaus."
Ripe language, contemporary jokes and
Toilet humor thrown in, adding immensely
To the pleasures of Strauss’s operetta.
"Die Fledermaus," or The Bat’s Revenge,
Is all about drunkenness and adultery.
Despite being written in the 1870s,
It remains equally pertinent to today’s pub culture of excess.
Daring; Colorful; ****: PGA golf.
I steal a golf ball on the far end of the 18th Hole.
I pick up the Titleist and stick it in the hole
(Steady Jessica, not yours.
I hide behind your bush.
(Cue up PSA, First Lady Bird Johnson’s 1960s
Nationwide Beautification Campaign:
“I want everyone in America to plant a tree,
A sherrrr-rub, or a booosh.”)
The golfer now searching frantically:
Why is the cup always the last place they look?
Then, wham, bam, he looks:
A legend is born.
A hole in one,
His name forever immortalized
On a plaque over the bar, the proverbial 19th Hole.

As you know, I speak for all mediocrities,
Safe in my 55+ gated-community.
I go next to the Club House,
"The Lodge" as it’s called.
Each afternoon, the usual suspects
Claiming first come/first serve tiered mini-theater seats
Where Netflix matinee gems are screened.
It is two minutes to DVD show time.
I walk to the front of the room.
I stare at my audience.
I count the house slowly,
Making meaningful eye contact with each wrinkled face.
I cup my hands behind my back and speak:
“I assume you are all here for my lecture on Kierkegaard.”
No one reacts.
I turn to leave but do a double-take and smile.
One old woman in the top right corner of the amphitheater laughs, Perhaps the one other human being within the gates
Who has also smoked a joint today.
For an instant, I am overwhelmed with paranoia,
Perhaps I’ve gone too far over the line:
No longer “oh-he’s-a-character;”
I am now “that creep is ******* nuts.”
Is it time for someone to approach my family,
My next of kin, my “who-to-contact-in-event-of-emergency” number? Who will make the call on behalf of the HOA—
The Homeowner’s Association—
The Tsars, the Duma, the Supreme Soviet in these parts?
They are the power inside the gates;
Those who determine the state’s enemies,
Who govern its community norms.
Power within the gates.
Law within the asylum.
Little Hitlers one and all.
Hopefully they reach my sister first.
She’s been briefed.
KEY POINT IN THE NARRATIVE:
The new narrative is non-linear.
We can no longer sustain a narrative understanding of ourselves;
We are each an individual stream of consciousness,
All of us random, non-linear and disconnected.
We grow more and more disconnected from others.
We may be neighbors in space and time,
But we remain deprived of any significant human contact;
Any spiritually significant human contact.
Our social circle narrows to what can fit in The Telescreen;
We become more intimate with a legion . . .
Did someone say a legion? SPQR:
Am I having some sort of genetic-linguistic seizure here?
Am I channeling Benito Mussolini again?
Il Duce speaks to me from the grave,
Still blowing smoke up my Hopi-Jew-*** ***,
Filling in my insecurities,
Plugging the holes in my character
With delusions of classical Roman grandeur, glory and empire. Hmmmm? Quite an appetizing pitch for the average *****,
A message so completely, so ethnocentrically slick,
Olive oily, and so seductive.
A non-Italian would have thought
American Legion or Legionnaire’s disease,
Or The Foreign Legion, The French Foreign Legion.
The French: a virulent, promiscuous people.
Do you want fries with that, Simone?
No, I don’t get out much.
Only an occasional brisk walk around the asylum,
In and around the golf course, around but inside the gates. (LINKS) Bill Gates. Daryl Gates. Billy Bathgate’s Gates? Ghiberti’s Gates? The Hot Gates? Thermopylae? 300 Spartans/700 Thespians:
“The noun causing idiots to think of
Two girls sloppily eating each other’s mighty vaginas,
When they hear mention of someone being an actor.” http://www.urbandictionary.com
Not even close.
No, I rarely venture out.
This is Hemetucky.
There are methamphetamine-stoked
Teenage zombies at the gate.
Note to costume control:
Perhaps camouflage clothing is the safe choice?
No loud red Hawaiian.
No garish Indonesian batik.
Fleet of feet are these Hemet tweakers,
These cranked up Riverside County teenage barbarians,
These Huns & Visigoths,
These amped up, ravenous jackals.
And why stop there?
These Vandals & Vandellas.
A Motown flashback:
“Nowhere to run, baby, nowhere to hide.”
With or without Martha—
They remain dangerously lethal.
Yes, let it be camo clothes for me.
Those **** heads may be young.
They may be fast.
They may be able to run me down
On a dry grass dog-legged fairway savannah,
Tearing the meat from my carcass.
But the sons-a-******* have to see me first.
Besides, we know who are real friends are.
Hooray for our media peeps!
We become more intimate with a legion
Of television personalities on 125 different channels.
Most of these we know by name and context.
We know their families, their friends,
Their histories, their tragedies,
Their favored hyperbole and manner of speech.
Sometimes we establish intimacy with celebrities
Strictly on the basis of universal body language.
At times–in the absence of any other
Empathetic facility of identification–
We connect on instinct alone.
Instinct: perhaps animal at its core,
An animal kingdom affinity group,
Connecting on a bio-linguistic level,
Particularly when the Korean, or Spanish,
Mandarin, or Arabic,
Japanese, or even Hebrew language version is broadcast.
All languages cryptically alien,
A dense boundary, a barrio border wall,
Undecipherable, impenetrable concrete.
But we’ve never spoken to our neighbors,
Nor do we know their names.
Celebrities are the neighbors we know best;
Although the intimacy is an illusion,
Permission to invade their privacy presumed,
Tacit in the relationship between celebrities and their fans.
I am an independent contractor now,
An outside consultant to the NSA.
Try as I might I cannot crack the enigma,
Kim Kardashian remains far beyond my code-breaking prowess.
I repeat myself:
We can no longer sustain a narrative understanding of ourselves;
We are each an individual stream of consciousness,
All of us random, non-linear and disconnected.
We are more and more disconnected from others.
We may be neighbors in space and time,
But we remain deprived of any significant human contact;
Any spiritually significant human contact.
Our social circle narrows to what can fit in The Telescreen; we become more intimate with a legion . . .
Back to you, David Ulin:
“Sometime late last year—I don’t remember when, exactly—I noticed I was having trouble sitting down to read. That’s a problem if you do what I do, but it’s an even bigger problem if you’re the kind of person I am. Since I discovered reading, I have always been surrounded by stacks of books. I read my way through camp, school, nights, and weekends; when my girlfriend and I backpacked through Europe after college graduation, I had to buy a suitcase to accommodate the books I picked up along the way.”
Thank you, David L. Ulin.
I cannot help myself.
I grow more eccentric each day.
My eyeballs glued to that flat screen!

Cosmo Kramer: "The bus is outta control.
So I grab him by the collar, I take him out of the seat,
I get behind the wheel, and now I’m driving the bus."
Jerry: "Wow!"
George Costanza: "You’re Batman."
Cosmo Kramer: "Yeah, yeah, I am Batman.
Then the mugger, he comes to and he starts choking me.
So I’m fighting him off with one hand,
And I kept driving the bus with the other, ya know.
Then I managed to open up the door,
And I kicked him out the door, ya know,
With my foot, ya know, at the next stop."
Jerry: "You kept making all the stops?"
Cosmo Kramer: "Well, people kept ringing the bell!"
(Share this moment with a stranger.)

I speak for all mediocrities.
I am their champion, their patron saint.
Boom Chaka Laka. Boom Chaka Laka.
Boom Chaka Laka. BOOM!
Isn’t it time Salieri tempted Constanze–
Frau Mozart–with a plateful of Capezzoli di Venere:
“******* of Venus.”
You had me at hello, Kidman.
I know you too well, Nicole.
I knew you from before,
Way before Tom’s Oprah couch freak show.
Listen to me, Nicole:
We are face to face
With the most profound question in American literature:
"What is the grass?
The flag of my surrender?
The flag of my disposition?"
I resort to Socratic maxims: Know yourself;
The un-****** life is not worth living.
Is it stress? Is it lack of conviction?
Everything Jeff Lebowski neither wants nor needs in his life?
I watched you *** in "Eyes Wide Shut," Nicole.
Now I know you with my eyes and your legs wide open.
Thank you, Sidney Pollack.
Sidney knew.
Sidney dealt us cards
From his Hollywood Tarot deck.
We are intimate, Nicole.
I watched you squat.

Like dried leaves fluttering
                With trembling stems
From an earthly passage, She took
The high road when Winter called
                Her back to the elements,
                       Back to the spiritual vent that yawns with souls.

In her gentleness remained memory – legacy;
                A smirk – that fun, secretive thought
                                Whispering across bloodlines.
I could never know her as well as you --
That tight, heavy knot at the back of your throat.
That dull thud of a monotone ache perched in your gut.
That knowledge that she was two in the same:
                Throwing the bread and serving it, too –
                Spreading around discipline with comfort to follow.
She was The Maker; The One –
                Now faded to brooches, to photographs, to stories.

I felt the muscles in your arm tense (As mine
did, too)
I felt the surge of tears beckon the realities of grief
                Like the smoke curling ‘round the swinging censor
I know why you ignored the Holy Man; sermonizing
                Her Life as if she were familiar.
                His discourse as bitter, acrid tastes upon breathing morning.
                His fabricated familiarity – the pinching, twitching nerve between your neck and shoulder.

Holy Man -- Bone Man –
                We could proclaim the mysteries of Faith
                But She taught us the permanence of Love.
She knew more; what she taught was
                Tangible
                Alive
Her Lesson more forgiving than any Act of Contrition.
Her Body more sustaining than any wafer of Christ.

Two side of the same blade –
The Love she taught us taught us Grief as well.
When she followed the Holy Man out – the Bone Man -
                You, Her Son –
                You knew.
You flew out like a sin to forgiveness
And staked your devotion, character, and eternal Love
                Upon her dwelling.
                                One more tangible reckoning of her attendance here;
                                One more connection that grounded her presence on this plane.

We followed Her – We followed You
Blind to your seeded bond that will never grace any words on a page
Yet drawn to the Lesson she taught
                And the Lesson you maintain.
We followed you
                Like trails in water : molecules bound and devoting the leader we call Mother.

POEM FOR IMALRIGHT
Dear Imalright
I discovered your poetry and LOVED all of it. I was struck by lots of what you wrote and it inspired to write this to you. I promise you I mean every word of it.
I read your poems:
Unexceptional
Unbeautiful
Anxiety at 3AM
Two sad teenagers
Relapse
Fifteen
Starving artist
2014
Nothing special
Rough Edges & a dorky face
Under eyes
I adored them and spent the better part of a full day, hours and hours combing through the verses, dissecting the poems, analyzing the words and fully appreciating your incredible work. I picked out my very favorite phrases or yours that I found particularly powerful and moving and responded to these lines. I wanted to start a challenge. (In fact I posted this challenge as a poem, you can find it on my page).
I thought it might be nice to do like a secret santa thingy on hellopoetry only not secret and not santa… what I mean is, find a random stranger you literally have never met and do NOT know at all whose poetry you like and spend actual time genuinely reading their work, picking out your favorite lines and responding to them, pondering them, etc. Write something positive to them and post it as a poem with their name in the title. The “DEAR BLANK” challenge only you put their name instead of “blank”. I think we could all use a little recognition that we exist and are worth something since everyone seems a little depressed on here (including myself) which is fine, it’s a great outlet but it would be nice for people to just spontaneously find that a random stranger spent time in their life just to recognize you and care about your poetry. To write a kind poem/letter to them responding to lines in their poetry. I just thought that you seemed like a wonderful poet and a wonderful person based on your poetry so I chose you, Imalright. So here it is:

Your head whispers these words that crawled onto the page:

We're the kind of people that fade into the background

that people forget are in the room.

-Imalright

I won’t say something that the rest of society seems to think fixes everything. I won’t tell you the typical: you are important to everyone, you are not just a faded part of the background, people do notice you etc. because those are empty words everyone uses and they people who are always pretty in the spotlight are always the ones to say it, so what do they really know about the background, forgotten, white-noise people like us?

I will tell you, instead, I know it hurts like hell to be forgotten. For your existence to go unnoticed. I know being a part of the background is never anyone’s first choice. I am a backdrop-dweller myself. I am the unnoticed girl who blends in with the shadows. There is nothing wrong with that.
Never forget that the starry night sky is a background too. You can still be wonderful without being the center of attention. You can still be wonderful even if you are a part of the background. I want you to know, I noticed your poetry. I noticed you, and your name, and your wonderful talent and I have spent my time dissection every poem you have posted because every single one of them, is a different shade of amazing. We are all backgrounds in someways but what we choose as our phone screen backgrounds tend to be pictures of what we love the best. Pictures of beautiful things. There is nothing unbeautiful about the background. So from one forgotten soul in a room to another, I your poetry was just another account in millions like the stars but you are one of the loveliest sections of this world’s background I have ever seen. Keep that in mind. 







I just wish that I was one of those beautiful things.

-Imalright

Once again, I won’t use a society phrase like: Everyone is special and beautiful in their own ways!! Because people don’t seem to get that no matter what they say, it doesn’t even matter if it is true, but if you tell someone who thinks they are not one of those beautiful things that they are beautiful They. Do. Not. Believe. You. It just doesn’t matter, it won’t change their mind, it doesn’t help and it doesn’t fix it. It just makes them feel like you are lying to them and then they feel vain and self-conscious about admitting to you that they don’t feel beautiful etc. etc. I’ve been there so I know.
So I won’t tell you that. But I will tell you a couple facts instead.

It is a fact, that there is ugly inside of every single person.
It is also a fact, that there is beauty inside every single person.
Because beauty is NOT a definable concept. It is different to every person depending what kind of lens they look through and let me tell you, physical beauty is artificial and even though I wish I could be physically attractive in my own eyes, I have come to accept and I hope you have too or will as well, that a deeper beauty than that is inner beauty. What you keep in the cracks and crevices you made yourself in your soul. I think you are beautiful. I the pages you’ve written on soaked with ink made out of your inner self is magnificent. Your way with words and your flow of thoughts, the way you look at life through an indigo-tinted-one-way-glass-lens, it is all a whispering sort of beauty. Like the soft ringing sound of raindrops skimming the window pane on a grey sky, storm cloudy day. That same sort of delicate loveliness. I think you are a very unique and exquisite color of beautiful unlike any other poet I’ve ever seen. I don’t know you, you don’t know me, we can’t label ourselves friends since I have never spoken to you, but friends are basically socially required to tell you that you are beautiful whereas strangers are bound by no such obligation, yet still I tell you, I find you a person with a beautiful soul. I have only ever seen your poetry, but that is enough for me to know you are a beautiful person. After all, poetry is really where our souls spill what they are truly composed of. If I were to judge your beauty by your face and actions, all those are altered by circumstances beyond our control, society standards and pressure etc. What you do does not define you. Your soul does, however. You are beautiful to me. 







I JUST WANT TO BE LOVED I JUST WANTS THINGS TO BE OKAY

-Imalright
A truthful scream of the heart that many have felt. It’s funny that we all have this same base desire that tends to reveal itself more and more the later at night it gets, and yet we all still suffer the feeling of being unloved and unokay alone and silently. I wish I could reach out and fix you because the pain of others that is out of my reach always pains me more than any kind of physical agony I could ever endure. I can’t fix you though, so instead I offer you the only thing I can, I am with you. As a friend, just another soul on the earth who has felt this feeling you express in this line. I reach out with the hands of my spirit and for your spirit. Maybe if you know that I too have felt unloved and unokay you can find comfort and strength in that. Because no matter what kind of darkness you face, literal or internal, I find being united with someone empathetic to you who knows how you feel makes it just a little less scary even if it is just a sliver of hope for even just a second. It is something and the idea of “hereness’ you know, like being “here” for you, being “with” you in that emotion is all I can offer and I just want you to know, I love everyone and everything until I am given a good reason not to. So in a way, even if not on a personal level (because I do not know you, so I can’t love you on a personal level the way a sister loves a sister or a best friend loves a best friend) just generally, you are loved by me, because I love your poetry and I love all things that haven’t given me reason not to. And do you know what? Even though it hurts and it is unfair, everyone has to be unokay for a little while. I have been too. Maybe you were unokay for longer than what could possibly be near just or humane or reasonable but you were strong enough to pull through. I applaud you for this and want you to know your strength in powering through your unokayness has been recognized and admired. By me. Because the warriors are the ones up at 3AM having anxiety attacks but never let it show and you are a warrior. I am proud to call you a fellow poet.




but being sad and lonely is worse than being sad.

-Imalright
I know what you mean by this line. It is sculpted so beautifully though. The words in the phrase are just so raw and honest. Not over romanticized, just plain relatable great poetry in its true form as it should be. Wonderful. I hope you have found refuge from loneliness or will find refuge from it soon in finding someone else’s heart to call your own and in your heart belonging to someone else.





A new scar for that comment that boy said.
A new scar for that friend that betrayed you.
A new scar for every word you swallow.

-Imalright
That boy has scars of his own and he thought it would make them fade if he cause you to have scars too. ***** him. The betrayal of a friend is a special kind of pain like being stabbed with a knife you made yourself. A pain I know too well and wish no one else knew. Let the scars heal and do not swallow words. You will choke pretty soon if you don’t. Keep in mind that you are worth more than scars. I think you are worth more than scars.






You don't know how bad things are.

-Imalright
First off, I love this line. Just so simple and yet so relatable. There is some beauty to that. Sort of like thorns on a rose stem. Although they can be piercing and ugly there is magnificence that goes along with it. To be 15 and not know how bad things are, you have the rest of your life to obsess over the bad things and how awful things really are. You have the rest of your earthly existence to be broken, so like a child’s smile, at least you had that one moment in your life when things weren’t shattered as far as you knew.





With nowhere to go but everywhere
-Imalright
What an extraordinary thought. Such a liberating idea. You have really inspired me with this one single phrase. Keep in mind, you can be so inspiring to people who don’t even know you (like me) just with your words. You really make such a difference in this world. I have decided after reading this line, I’m going to try and let a little bit of that philosophy into my life. Nowhere to go but anywhere.

And that hope is going to make me stop doing this to myself.

-Imalright
Well, I really hope so too. I hoped for hope to save me for way too long. Eventually you gotta find it in yourself because this world is a little short on Hope, its main export being Despair. Just know you are not alone in this. I wish Hope was something you could wrap and mail it to someone who needs it but I can’t hand you Hope. I cannot offer it to you physically but if it helps at all, if it creates Hope for you, I want you to know that I personally, desperately from the bottom of my heart hope to God, genuinely thinking of you individually as a person that you have healed or are healing or will heal through Hope. If that helps. I have been crumbling, but somehow, after a hell of a lot of anguish, I found Hope. You can too. If it doesn’t help then I offer you my hand spiritually and metaphorically. Stay hopeful, because in this world, that is all we have.






i'm nothing special
im not beautiful
i'm not gifted

-Imalright
I know I can’t change your mind the same way no one can change mine when it comes to how self-image and esteem, but I just wanted to tell you even if you don’t believe me, in my eyes and in my opinion, not saying this to be fake or just being nice. If it weren’t true I just wouldn’t bring it up or say anything about it but you are VERY special. …okay that doesn’t sound good that sounds like the kind of special people put in quotations like: oh, she’s um… you know, “special” alright…
What I meant was, you are special because your poetry has made a difference in my life. You insightful view into life, your precious unprecedented perspective on the world and how you perceive it is very special. I have already explained why I think you are beautiful internally and keep in mind there is no such thing as one type of physical beauty. It is all about opinion and to some person or some people out there, you ARE physically perfect. To them, your physical traits are their definition of beauty because beauty doesn’t have a size, a color or a shape. That is the beautiful thing about beauty. And you are gifted at poetry, that’s for **** sure. Your poems are absolutely toxically flawless I adore them and I really, really mean that. Your writing is close to my heart. That may come across rather creepy sorry about that haha :P but you need to know that you are gifted when it comes to beautiful words.






No one will make me believe that all of my flaws aren't wonderful.

-Imalright
Such a sensational thought and resolve. I really and truly admire and acknowledge your indescribable strength I wish I could achieve to not only accept but embrace your flaws. You are such a strong person and I want to thank you for being such an inspiration to me and the rest of the world, doing that and finding that truth within yourself that flaws are wonderful things.
wondering why i had shattered myself in the process of picking up someone else's pieces

-Imalright

Okay, before I say anything else… omfg wow holy mother of waffles. (That is not a very common expression but I am so struck by the priceless incredibleness of this line I can’t think straight. Also, waffles are good.) This is amazing… how do you come up with stuff like this???!! The imagery, the metaphor, the power of the phrase embedded in the words just… wow. Spectacular. God, I just really, REALLY hope with every ounce of my soul you find a way to repair yourself or someone to repair you because to lose yourself, saving someone else who was broken is so heroically tragic it breaks my heart because you are such a beautiful person.




Dear Imalright
I offer you Poet’s Love.
One poet to another.
I admire your work and your work is made out of little parts of you.
I admire you and your strength, your writing abilities and your outlook on life.
Never ever change.
I hope you find Hope.
Message me anytime should you need anything.
And I want to thank you for being such a strong inspiration to the race of people we call: Poets.
Love,
Ember Evanescent.

In a time,
when men were the superheroes,
born in an unconventional location,

a young girl, unknown to the future
she was destined to,
was born with a uniqueness
unfound in all people, a superpower
of empathy
and as she grew,

the world knew
she was imbued
as a living embodiment of legends:

Athena's wisdom,
beauty that surpassed the goddess Aphrodite,
conversational skills that made Hermes envious,
and strength that Hercules
could never attain.

As she approached an age, when her parents would
trust her to be guardian,
her powers manifested.
This incredible child was now a woman.

With the ability to heal those in need: she could expunge
poison that had afflicted a person,
even their hearts,
a God-given gift for those most sacred;
her correspondences exponentially developed,
able to connect in all languages, fueled by her empathetic nature,
this allowed all who interacted with her to trust her for she radiates sincerity.

Now, fully grown, this super-no-

This Wonder Woman had retired her duties
to save the world, not forsake it, but,
to train Wonder Girl, her daughter,
to unlock the latent abilities her mother had passed on to her.

She still looks up at the Higher Power
and realizes her duty to provide
the world justice is not over
but only beginning.

Her holy spirit was not unacknowledged
and was gifted
a bulletproof bracelet,
forged by the most skilled craftsman by direction
of all that is wise and healing.

Given to her to wear
so that nothing could halt her
as she continues
her fate to provide the world a humanity
that could only come from
an intrinsically true
dear heart.

I found myself stranded on
Neverland
with no way to fly
and no star to show me the way
'till one night
as I closed my eyes
a shadow appeared and a boy
close on his heels
they tumbled and rolled before my feet
Boy and Shadow became one
and grinned at me
"Peter Pan"
he said to me
playing a tune
and swore he just wanted
to talk for a while

Laying amongst the tiger lilies
I so adored and staring up at the stars
He asked me to be his
When I asked why he simply replied
"I once saved you from
Captain Hook."
"I’ll keep you safe."
"I promise you’ll never be lonely.”
Foolishly, I agreed
and he took me to his
Hiding Tree
where spiteful Tinkerbell
tried to be rid of me
for I was Self-Composed, Human & Withdrawn,
everything she was not.
He taught me how to fly,
showed me every nook and cranny
of his world by moonlight.
And I fell in love
with the way, his eyes shone like fireflies
and his pure and genuine laugh.
He was enthralling
and magnetic
always so carefree
and reckless

How wonderful it was

'Till Wendy bird came along
for she was Kind, Romantic & Empathetic
everything I was not
all I could do was watch
as they flew through Neverland
by moonlight
She fell hopelessly in love
with his recklessly playful nature
and hypnotic charms

Yet every night
Wendy gazed down
to see the girl
with the crow feather in her hair
laying amongst the flowers she was named
with Tinkerbell by her side.
Whenever she asked Peter why
he simply replied
“She is as Wild as she is Beautiful.
She cannot be contained
by the hollow walls of my Hiding Tree
Nor the boundaries of her village."

Then one night
when Wendy bird left
and Peter returned to Hangman’s Tree
he found Tiger Lily gone.
Every night he’d fly above
Neverland
only to glimpse
her crow feather
but all he found was an empty space
belonging
to her ghost
whispering
"Peter Pan
Take my hand and fly away
to Neverland
where the beast
within
can be free"

Tinkerbell never did say where she’d gone
only to leave her be.
Her wild beast no longer had a home.

Peter Pan
would never see her again
He had broken his Lily's heart

And Maybe we started off loving each other,
Or maybe we Pretended the hate we had for each other,
wasn't what Begun.

But Maybe the Lust
was just Lost
in our Hostility,
Because we only showed our true affections,
though our every aggression.

Maybe Obedience on my part,
Led you to your obsessive,
Threatening tendency's,
Some that led you throw your clammy fists at me,
But you Threw Terribly,

Sometimes I think you were being Empathetic to me,
When you didn't really force your fake Expression of love on me.
Because sometimes,
I just had blow you,
To prevent our blow outs,
But Every time you Exposed me,
You Excuse yourself,
by saying you love me.

Sometimes,
Love and Hate
Start off the same,
But we wont see it,
Until the ending letters,
end with E,
for Ending.

I realize I am too compassionate;
I feel everything at a 100% rate,
and I loathe it so much.
Why do they come on so strong all the time;
it mentally drains me.

I am destined to die early;
I can't see myself living past my mid-thirties.
I learn how to accept death as it is,
and I am slowly learning how to let go.

I want to cry, I want to scream;
I want to voice out this indecipherable torment inside of me.
But no one will understand,
and no one will know;
this mask of mine can't be taken off.

It is what I desire,
yet I want to scream the truth out to the world;
my alternating flow of thoughts,
my constant battle;
it goes down with me to the grave.

This happiness is an illusion;
There's a second mind that takes over,
and blocks away all of the hopelessness.
It brings forth a temporary elation,
a nonchalance,
a pretentious ease.

Is this better?
Does it make me better?
Or does this delude me to the point
where I become more destructive
and cause more harm than cure?

Why does my mind run so much?
Why does this version of me exist?

Because I am born empathetic.
Because I am human.
Because I hold a great understanding of myself,
and a greater awareness of how I am.

But not behind in the how it came to be.

No one holds the answer, and I am forever left with questioning all these endless why's and how's.

Everything else is left unanswered

perhaps until the day I die.

— Y.H.

the end of the tunnel,
gentle fervor.

Indifference
is the key
I always
lose

maybe you put too much faith in me

i'm agnostic, apathetic, aromantic
and too much of an antagonist to never let you down

you could drown me,
make me suffer for my attitude;
but i'll not atone for my sins

remorse is for the empathetic
and i am just

empathetic minus the em

The only other girl at the party
is ranting about feminism.
The audience: a sea of **** jokes and snapbacks
and styrofoam cups and me.
They gawk at her mouth like it is a drain
clogged with too many opinions.
I shoot her an empathetic glance
and say nothing. This house is for
wallpaper women. What good
is wallpaper that speaks?
I want to stand up, but if I do,
whose coffee table silence
will these boys rest their feet on?

These boys…
I want to stand up, but if I do,
what if someone takes my spot?
I want to stand up, but if I do,
what if everyone notices I’ve been
sitting this whole time? I am ashamed
of keeping my feminism in my pocket
until it is convenient not to, like at poetry
slams or woman studies classes.
There are days I want people to like me
more than I want to change the world.
Once I forgave a predator because
I was afraid to start drama in our friend group
two weeks later he assaulted someone else.
I’m still carrying the guilt in my purse.

There are days I forget we had to invent
nail polish to change color in drugged
drinks and apps to virtually walk us home
and lipstick shaped mace and underwear designed to prevent ****.

Once a man behind me at an escalator
shoved his hand up my skirt
from behind and no one around me
said anything,
so I didn’t say anything.
Because I didn’t wanna make a scene.

Once an adult man made a necklace
out of his hands for me and
I still wake up in hot sweats
haunted with images of the hurt
of girls he assaulted after I didn’t report,
all younger than me.

How am I to forgive myself for doing
nothing in the mouth of trauma?
Is silence not an active violence too?

Once, I told a boy I was powerful
and he told me to mind my own business.

Once, a boy accused me of practicing
misandry. “You think you can take
over the world?” And I said “No,
I just want to see it. I just need
to know it is there for someone.”

Once, my dad informed me sexism
is dead and reminded me to always
carry pepper spray in the same breath.
We accept this state of constant fear
as just another component of being a girl.
We text each other when we get home
safe and it does not occur to us that
not all of our guy friends have to do the same.
You could literally saw a woman in half
and it would still be called a magic trick.
Wouldn’t it?
That’s why you invited us here,
isn’t it? Because there is no show
without a beautiful assistant?
We are surrounded by boys who hang up
our naked posters and fantasize
about choking us and watch movies that
we get murdered in. We are the daughters
of men who warned us about the news
and the missing girls on the milk carton
and the sharp edge of the world.
They begged us to be careful. To be safe.
Then told our brothers to go out and play.

You: have the wounds everyone wants to kiss and love
You: recognize you're only important if you're pretty, dead, and or just so happen to " beautifully "  borderline either at any given time.
you :let people satiate their misplaced guilt and empathy.
let them coin you a case of charity,
a stigmata *******,
Is it building or belittling to be someones muse?...
If your only inspirational because you're looked upon as broken or used?

As I'm dipping pretzels in my tea
My cat wanders on up to me

He rubs at my leg, as if to say
I know how you feel, you wish he'd stay

He climbs on my lap, looks me in the eyes
I know you wish he were here tonight
I know you miss him -- I miss him too

But then I realize, he probably just wants some food

my biggest reach for myself
is to love the person i see in the mirror
and i cannot love every single person
in the pursuit of loving my own self

I talked to him
About how today was hard
And I was tired
And felt ill

I didn't give him many details
Because he didn't quite deserve to know

Yesterday was harder
That was the initial crash
Today was the crumble
The final downfall

The worst part
Is that nothing
At all
Directly affected me

It was hall her
And her dad
And how she
No longer has one

If you share your problems with me
I will immediately turn them into my problems
And feel almost as bad about them
As you do

It's not intentional
It just kind of happens
Like a rainbow
Or a hurricane

I've been told
That the feeling
Is called empathy
And I'm empathetic

When I told him
I'm empathetic
He misunderstood me
You're not pathetic

Though I appreciate the sentiment
Taken from mistaken words
I honestly believe
That both statements are true

(the tics will talk 'til twelve o'clock)

When we make time,
When we listen:

The theistic preach deistic talk;
The atheistic preach pragmatic talk;
The agnostic preach proleptic talk;
The heretic preach shismatic talk;
The mystic preach prophetic talk.
(the mesianic and satanic never stop)

When we have time;
Then we listen:

The optimistic teach hypnotic talk;
The pessimistic teach sarcastic talk;
The altruistic teach empathetic talk;
The idealistic teach synergistic talk;
The pacifistic teach semantic talk;
The body politic teach charismatic talk;
The technocratic teach robotic talk;
The romantic teach poetic talk;
The critic teach cathartic talk;
The moralistic teach dualistic talk;
The ascetic teach platonic talk.
(the artist would rather not talk)

When we find time,
Do we listen:

The lunatic speak quizzotic talk;
The neurotic speak pathetic talk;
The chauvanistic speak monistic talk;
The nihilistic speak ballistic talk;
The hedonist speak narcissistic talk;
The futuristic speak galactic talk.
(the minimalist hasn't the time to talk)

Just don't.

Look.
Some tic reset the clock.

They line the streets
And on every  corner
One "ailment" or the other
A family,  sometimes brother and sister.

Crying in a song
Singing with one voice
All covered up in fake injuries
Lamenting about past glories

They line the streets
Crowding every corner
Always a bother
Clinging to our knees
In their deliberately torn dresses

Keep them away from us
Stop them from touching us
With their deceptive illusions
Appealing to our emotions
With empathetic persuasions
And now our money is gone.

I hate this feeling. The feeling of being empty. The feeling of loneliness. Feeling that no one will ever truly love you for who you are as a person. Feeling that your never gonna experience real love. Feeling that you're never good enough for anyone. It ***** you know, feeling like no ones meant for you, feeling like your gonna be alone for the rest of your life. Feeling that you’ll never find someone that truly understands you. I'm sick and tired of all these temporary relationships.
I'm tired of being ‘in love’ with someone for only two months and then being let down in the end. I'm tired of it. I wish I couldn't care less about being in love with someone and  I wish I could stop worrying about finding someone. But love doesn't work like that with me. I'm hopeless. Its so stupid, you know?
The idea of love. Its pathetic. I honestly wish it never existed sometimes. I get so lonely. And it kills me slowly and slowly each and every day. It gnaws at my insides, tearing me up piece by piece. But no one knows that. Because on the outside, i'm cold. Heartless. Couldn't care less about love. But on the inside, that’s what I crave for the most.
And no one realizes that. No one does. Its funny because I can tell why someone acts a certain way around people and I help them through it and i'm always the one who's there for everyone because i'm the only person who can listen to them and truly feel empathetic towards them and can help them.
But when it comes to me its like no one even tries because they all think I don’t have problems and that I never get lonely and that i'm so strong but in reality i'm not and i need someone too but there's no one there for me because like I said, there's no one meant for me and I don’t know i'm just so so very lonely and I need someone but there's no one there but myself. So the only thing I can do is what I've been doing for the past nine years now: take care of myself, without anyone else. Because its just me, and **its always gonna be just me.

A whisper is a word spoken softly. A thought is an idea screamed softly.
But while I may not have the words to speak to make my thoughts known,
I can't imagine I'll be looked down upon for this empathetic dream so lofty:
Speak a name with warmth, say a name and smile, love is freed and flown.

I can't always get the rhythm right and I'm not always the sacrificial soul,
I don't always eradicate my ego and I certainly can't say I haven't lied.
But I promise that I'm the genuine, the true, antithetically duplicitous role,
Even if you can't see it, even if you won't feel it--compassion is implied.

So, don't think you don't inspire someone in the world--you do.
Sure, you made mistakes in the past, but all your heroes did too.

Your eyes smoulder with an imagination that is even bolder than I could have dreamed and colder than this toxic air we've been forced to breathe.

You write poetry across your face to form a Gas mask of rythym, blocking out the hate yet sealing in ideas that might frustrate you.

You hear the birds in the trees and you read the articles in every magazine, you take in information like the bees to the Queen.

Your thoughts radiate an aura surrounding your entire body, you bleed history and pop culture facts, you need the written word like an addict needs their cigarette packs.

You're empathetic to your core, you feel what everyone else does so you hide yourself in your mind until you can categorize the emotions from the lies.

I know you can feel the love in your heart even through all the cracks, like a weathered and torn apart roadmap but you're taped together perfectly and even with a few wrong turns you always find your way back to me.

Lately, I've seen poems trending about how no one should fall in love with a poet, nor should they make a poet helplessly fall in love with them. However, something no one has mentioned yet is what occurs too often: stealing from a poet.

When a poet writes a poem, that poem is the perfect combination of metaphors and imagery created by them for you -- a compilation so beautifully intricate that you can get lost by reading merely a few words, overtaken by an empathetic tide that you did not think would come to the corners of your eyes when you sat down and opened your book or tab or paper.

This is the beauty of poems; they express words that many cannot say in any other variation of any way. Ask a poet to describe their emotions and they will beg you for paper and pen, a computer and a keyboard. And these poems eventually combine to become a part of the poet.

The poems a poet writes become a part of themselves.

That being said, it is not okay to take away from a poet what is rightfully theirs. You do not steal from a poet because you are searching for an idea, or because you would like to go trending. Stealing is not poetry. Stealing is not beautiful.

We are a community of people with a love more affable for poetry than for ourselves, and we should all respect all the pieces, because if we do then we are accepting and respecting each other.

So I ask you from the bottom of my heart, do not steal from a poet any longer if you have, or at all if you have not. Your pieces are your own raw emotions, not mine. My pieces are my own raw emotions, not yours.