Love songs come in many forms,
the heartfelt pleas of lovers and friends, the eyes of disappointed children,
the sound of doors slamming,  
a mothers anguished cries.

They're not always coddling
and comforting,
sometimes they're loud and confronting and startling, like trumpets.

It's only when self love comes home that I'm able to recognize them for what they were and from where they came. They came from love and they are songs.

And I see the stars fall
and I know you can stop them,
but you don't and I thank you.

Let them fall,
it is their time
and they are happy.

For thousands of years mankind
has predicted the death of the stars
but they never believed their ancestors would see it.

Alas they did,
the year 47806 has seen the fall of the stars,
but not the fall of man.

Oh no, man survived the destruction of Old Earth, the destruction of New Earth,
and the fall of Heigiria, so why should we die now?

No, for dozens of thousand of years man has persisted, for it is in their nature. Just as much as money was a part of pre-Heigiria human nature, so is survival.

We've evolved, we don't wear shoes or smoke cigarettes or speak but we still have art and we still have poetry we only share it differently. We share it on a cosmic scale, we mold Galaxies into love letters and universes into sonnets.

Let the stars fall, my dearest companion,
it signifies your love for me and the love I feel for you. Let's travel to Universe XB87 and experience it again in a millennium, let's travel to Multiverse 3 and experience it ten thousand times in ten thousand ways. Nothing I could think and nothing I could shape could be as beautiful, could be as wondrous as the warmth I feel from you as the stars die

I'm as lit as a Christmas tree,
tomorrow is Saturday,
and, "yes please,
I would enjoy some chocolate milk."

tomorrow is Saturday,
and, "yes please,
I would enjoy some chocolate milk."
The clouds are thick,

and "yes please,
I would enjoy some chocolate milk."
The clouds are thick,
but you can still see the stars.

I would enjoy some chocolate milk. "
The clouds are thick,
but you can still see the stars.
Time spent waiting is time spent wasting,

The clouds are thick,
but you can still see the stars.
Time spent waiting is time spent wasting,
and waste not, want not.

but you can still see the stars.
Time spent waiting is time spent wasting,
and waste not, want not.
"I need what keeps a young man alive,

Time spent waiting is time spent wasting,
and waste not, want not.
"I need what keeps a young man alive,
and I'm saying I need it now"

and waste not, want.

I'm happy you enjoy drinking coffee and talking, because
I also enjoy talking and drinking coffee
and maybe we could do it together sometime? Tuesday, there is nothing I'd rather do than drink coffee and talk with you.

You're an intellectual,
you're a compassionate human being,
and your hair is to die for.

No, no, we're just getting coffee,
I'm not interested in anything more,
she's cute sure, but she would rip me to pieces. And besides, like I said last Thursday, I'm not interested in dating anyone. Why don't we just put on the Talking Heads and get high?

I dated a girl who emotionally abused me for months and when I finally split things off I cried everyday for a couple months.

I split things off with a girl who I loved with all my heart, I continue to believe I would cross oceans for her, yet I have not cried.

I'm an oxymoron, a lesson in irony.
I'm an upbeat jazz number, played in a minor chord.
I feel the world for those around me,
and only bitter disdain for myself.

I'm attractive, I've got a strong jaw line,
and a nose most guys would **** for.
I dress better than the guys I run with,
and my hair does exactly what I want it to.

I read French existentialist authors
and consider myself well versed in modern jazz.
I've got a steady job, and I've never been late once.

When I think about who I am,
and the jealousy I feel towards the happiness I am not providing you,
I get sick to my stomach.

All I've ever wanted is for you to be happy and you appear to be so and I'm upset because I'm a jealous ***** of a man who has the emotional capacity of a child longing for his mother's teet.


I don't know why I feel the way I do but I'm out of *** and I have to deal with how I'm feeling and that will be a first.

I am not worthy of being hers, receiving her love, being held in her arms.

Is a believer worthy or his god's love?
Are you worthy of Jesus's love?

We as human beings have tried to capture what we believe in, what we're most passionate about, through art.

I will try to describe to you my beliefs.
I will try to describe to you my love.

Her ******* could be compared to the most delicious fruit, eaten on a summer day.

Her love is that of no other. It is as powerful as an endless rain, as gentle as a lilac.

Her voice rings true in my ear. There is beauty in truth and her words are a scripture to be worshipped.

Her touch is softer than a cloud in heaven,
yet firm.

Her strength is seldom flexed but when needed she could move a mountain will force of will.

She is love, she is the essence, she fuels desire and stars equally.

She is kindness, she is forgiveness, she is a blessing to me and every other living creature that encounters her.

I am an unworthy servant, I will wash her feet a thousand times.

She is the sun and the moon.

Timmy got a bike,
Timmy ******* died.
Timmy's mother drank,
Timmy's father cried.

And it rained.
It rained for five days and six nights,
and although it stopped raining on the sixth day, the sun did not shine.

It's the movement,
iOS7, download tonight,
Timmy's bike was red,
his friends thought it was tight.

Timmy got a bike,
(Each day we all feel a bit more like Bukowski, a bit more cynical)
Timmy ******* died.

A Half Forgotten Memory of the Train Tracks in Puget Sound

sometimes I feel like a still life
that won't sit right on the wall.
sometimes I feel like a guitar
with one broken string,
so all the chords come out slightly wrong.
sometimes I don't feel at all
and I'm not sure I mind.

I'm a study in grey.
And I've nothing to say
as I paint my portrait of dissatisfaction.

I eat ash with my hands
and ***** ink on the page.
And if I sit real still,
I swear I can feel myself age.

In a room full of silence,
I have conversations
with the space between echoes.

I'm always running,
but going nowhere.

I'll meet you in Big Nothing.

Pretty (adj):
1. pleasing or attractive to the eye, as by delicacy or gracefulness;
"Pretty" is a word that's been spewed at you since the day you were born,
A social standard set upon you that you had yet to even hear, but it was being used to describe you instantly;
A "pretty little girl", a "pretty face", "pretty eyes", "pretty smile", "pretty outfit",
Did anyone ever stop to wonder if you'd have a pretty soul?
What about the way you could be brought to tears at the thought of shaming homeless people or victims of abuse, how your heart felt like it was ripping out of your chest when you heard about someone who was struggling,
They didn't seem to care that you tested highest in compassion, they just wanted to know where you got your dress from.
As you grew older the adjective turned from an innocent compliment to what seemed like a snide remark,
The word "pretty" began to eat you from the inside out every time it was said
like you should measure your worth in how delicate others find you;
You stopped accepting "pretty" as a compliment when it turned into an adjective that was only associated with girls that were more than average but less than beautiful,
You stopped accepting "pretty" as a compliment when it became an antonym of strong,
like "pretty" girls were things that would break if you talked too loud, as if loving a "pretty" thing could never be synonymous with loving a durable or sturdy or resilient thing.
D.A. Sharp once said
"You weren't meant to be pretty; you were meant to burn down the earth and graffiti the sky. Don't let anyone ever simplify you to just "pretty"."
And so when someone kindly placed the word in a sentence referring to you you learned to automatically put it into quotations because they were just trying to be nice,
They didn't know they were reducing you to outer beauty, that "pretty" seemed less like a compliment the more it was said, like people couldn't figure out another way to describe you,
As if God hadn't already intricately woven the threads of your DNA, as if he hadn't perfectly tinted every hair on your head to be its crisp burnt color or hand painted the irises of your eyes,
No, "pretty" could no longer cut it.
Because you had been made for bigger and better things,
Those "pretty" eyes of yours will one day see things that God hadn't originally intended anyone to have to see, and those "pretty" hands of yours will have to pick up the pieces of a heartache that God had never wanted you to know and put them back together, and those "pretty" lips of yours are the same lips that will stand in front of sin and tell it that you have chosen Jesus.
Because "pretty" is fine,
but you have been fearfully and wonderfully made, a masterpiece of the Creator.