There's nothing here
                                                            ­                                          or there
that makes me think to myself.

There's no thought here
                                                            ­                                          or there
that makes me question reality.

There's no reality here
                                                            ­                                          or there
that makes me look forward to the future.

There's no future here
                                                            ­                                          or there
that makes my past seem worth the effort.

There's no effort here
                                                            ­                                          or there
that makes me believe either side has anything going for it.

There's no belief here
                                                            ­                                          or there
that makes it all understandable, righteous, reasonable.

There's no reason here
                                                            ­                                          or there
that makes any of this make sense.

There's no wrong,
there's no right,
there's no up,
there's no down.

All there is
is me.
In the middle,
unaffected.

Dear future self,

On a scale of one to doormat,
How prune are you to accept?

And have you been proven wrong,
Or is it still the worst you expect?

Have you learnt walking the line
Between pessimism and optimism,
Or have you lost your wits?

Have you made yourself lasagna,
Kept track of your ***** laundry?

Eating enough green,
Or still lazy to get up when you're hungry..

Is time as life altering as it sounds,
Or plain old yesterdays that represent nothing?

Have you bribed your lucky stars,
And found that perfect timing all of a sudden?

Are you even still writing,
Or left the platform for greater poets?

Still doing things half-heartedly,
Or finally filled the gap where the lines are dotted.

Have you witnessed a miracle?
Washed yourself of your ever present dissatisfaction?

Acquainted the many selves that you are,
And finally released your thoughts from their abstraction?

I know there's no finish line,
Or at least we won't be here to behold it.

But I hope you're far ahead,
So you can slow down a bit.

Never fall in love with a poet.
They will break you apart
like stanzas.
You are a metaphor,
a simile, an oxy-
*****.
Never fall in love with a poet.
They will tear you apart
like a rough draft,
burn you, and then
call it art.

© A. Leigh

I am terribly near sighted
Consciously and subconsciously
I see not what I have saw
And
I hear not what I have heard
Sometimes,
In fact most of the time,
I don’t even feel
What I should have felt

But the mirror of life
It keeps a record of every little thing
And I relive in my dreams
All that I have missed

And much much more:

All I ever need
Is just a little hint of life:

Your lovely little smile
I failed to respond to during the day
Would haunt me
With what would seem like
A whole lifetime of sweet champagne
And
Kisses of cherries and grapes
With a scent of longing that
Fills me to the core with
Twinges that burst throughout
My entire being
Shining brightly from
Every single particle of my
Soul

The little chirps and calls of crickets
That alternate between the oblivious
Moon upon a bed of restless stars
And the wizened sun
Would always take me to a land
Unlived, untouched, unruined
A vast nonexistence
A vast ruin full of life
Where I have never been so alone
Yet so fulfilled, so joyful, and so
Free

And

The dreamless gale that
Would raise me up to mountains
From which I can finally gaze down
With sure and confident eyes
Upon the whole of life
And
See, sense, and feel
Every scenery and every being
With the purest of colours
Rowing down the crimson rivers
In a canary boat caressed by
A forest of ocean blue sequoias
Blanketed with a soup of
Violet stars
Into the heart of the universe

Where everything that have lived
Or could have lived
Never went away

Where nothing is ever gone
But just lost
So momentarily
Like a wandering child
Let out into the world
Seemingly defenselessly
Yet, perfectly safe
Under the hidden watch of
The mother

Where everything I love
Love me just as much
And so much more

Where I am never just me
But a child
A poet
A painter
A musician
An ancient pilgrim

Where I can fall into stars
And float up to the edge
Of the sky
Swim in the air without my feet
Ever touching the ground

Where I am finally
Held by you
The one person
I love most unyieldingly
In a death grip of never letting go.