Maybe none of it is real
Maybe the sky was painted
Painted so well that it came to life
It moved, it shifted
It spun, it cried
It then rejected mankind
Even when they tried
Rejecting its creator,
like a rebellious child
Its creation being imagination
Or spoon fed lies
Our creation fabricated
By men in ties?

I feel like...

...everything she says, sings, posts and does
Is directed towards me

Every glance taken at me could be a step taken towards me

I make excuses for her actions but I know she ignores me

And everytime she makes a bitter statement I hope its not for me

But maybe that was the problem
Everything had to be about me, me, me...

there are so many of you
that i would love to sit down with;
maybe over a milkshake and a plate of fries;
and just talk.
i want to ask you about the boy that hurt you,
about the anger you feel deep inside
over a father who said he’d come back...
and then didn’t.
i want to run with you through pages of words and say
“oh that’s right, what a lovely metaphor.”
i want to see all your smiling faces and
thank each and every one of you for showing me kindness,
for saving my life.
i want to collaborate on novels of poetry
and laugh with you through the tears of our pasts.
so until we sip those milkshakes and eat those fries...
thank you, to
some of the most beautiful people i have never met.