Eye to eye,
I want to be lost in you.
Peering through the windows to a spirit of fire.
To be leveled with merely a glance
that leaves me defenseless yet safe.

Lip to lip,
I want to savor you.
Leaving chills where our fingertips trace.
Painting with the brush of my tongue on the canvas of yours
vibrant watercolors of orchids.

Hip to hip,
   I want to traverse ancient ruins of toppled granite, layered with moss and scaled with ivy.
I want to walk coasts kissed by the waves of seas,
as they topple the sandcastle we built and left behind.

Side to side,
I want stand with you and nurture your passions.
To inspire you, and for you to inspire me.
To stare at a wonder brimming with zeal,
to marvel at a soul so compassionate.

Heart to heart,
I want to discover you, to learn the depths of who you are.
To unveil the mystery of a goddess.
I want you to learn me, and see me.
To share in each other's pain and triumph.

Hand in hand,
I want to walk with you on sunlit roads and darkened paths.
To uplift you and encourage you.
To be there to celebrate your success,
And hold you up in failure.

From me to you,
This is my heart, and I never had much.
I always craved that connection, and oneness.
I can live without it, I know I'm self-sustained,
but there will always be an ache in my heart for you.

Small circles,
friends,
habits,
family.
Small cycles,
seasons,
habits,
family.
Small circles because...
seasonal friends.
habitual cycles.
familial circles.
Small cycles because...
habitual friends.
seasonal habits.
familial circles.
Family cycles caused...
circular habits and...
seasonal friends and...
circles of habits and..
seasonal family...
cycles of circles,
circles of cycles,
cycles of circles that spiraled me earth-ward,
circles of cycles that spun me sky-ward.
Circles of habits that turned me inward.
And then breaking cycles that turned me outward.
Sometimes a broken circle is closer to perfect.
Tri a new Angle.  Sometimes square is better than circles.

To love is to give every
ounce of yourself to
her in word and deed.

To love is to ride the
wave of a chaotic sea,
to crash and froth
against the cliffs,
edges jagged and strewn
with large rocks.

To love is to coast on
and tread the gentle
currents, while the orange
glow of a serene late day
sun casts himself benevolently
on the sea, and the shores she kisses.

For it to end is
for sound to seem faded
and taste to be bland.

In this death there
is no mourning...
only the cold hollow
chill of a winter night...
still... windless...indifferent
as the moon's shallow light.

To be captured,
by the radiance in your eyes,
the flow of your hair.

To be enamored by your grace,
to be a guest of honor in your life.
to be a recipient of what makes people love you.

To be a part of your family, and a family for once.
To have a place in your lineage, and a place for once.
To have a place in your heart, and someone's heart for once.

I'm independent, yet I want to be claimed.
I'm my own person, but I want to be owned.
I'm my own man, but I want to be someone's.

A cold, cold winter.
City sleeps and I'm awake,
During that summer.

I am a piece of paper.

I have been cut down, and put through a mill.

I have been tossed by the winds, yet tethered to every word written upon me.

Words written in black ink, spelling in all capitals that I'm useless, and unlovable.  That I am in the way, and that when I am out of the way I am forgotten.

Words written in blood, saying that I have no reason to go on. I will never be accepted; that I am not enough.  

Words written in invisible ink saying that I will never be seen.

My paragraphs are blotted out, crossed through and rearranged by careless editors.

My crisp texture, and white color gives way to muddy boot prints.

I am rife with tears and crinkles at the hands of careless of writers.

I have been cut down, and put through a mill.

The truth is though...

I am a piece of paper.

I have many uses.

I can be your origami, a love note, or an airplane.

I can be an interesting article, or a beautiful story.

There, among the chicken-scratch and scar tissue, I have room to write my own words.

With caret marks I correct every word I
ever let define me.

My story isn't written on me.  The changes made to the words written on me are my story.

One thing this piece of paper has learned, is that you should never give people the power to write in
permanent maker what should only be written in pencil.

And you cannot control the whipping wind you whirl in, but you can be a page worth a second look.

We are all worth a revision.

Slithering subtlety, the serpent saw a shard shaped slightly like his self.  
He gazed into the glass, seeing a reflection.
"What beautiful feathers I have!", he said covered in scales.  "What beautiful colors--- and wow!  Look at my wings!"
He mused to himself, (it's no wonder I soared so much higher than the others...They had no wings!  No illustrious feathers!  They only have scales, that's why they're different than me!  They not like myself, or other birds that I see).

He slithered sedated and satisfied with a sullen, sad and insecure of sense self under surface.
Along the way he spotted a Gold Parakeet, he compared himself and said this through his teeth: "Your scales are ugly, and cracked, and dull.  You slither with your wings from trees very tall.  Why can't you fly, and be bright like me?  You're unable, and there's something wrong with you, all the other birds agree."
The parakeet parried the poisonous paragraph perfectly:
"When you see me, you see what you want.  You attack what I am because I have what you flaunt.  But I soar high, while your words sink low.  One day you'll be measured by the scales you show."
The parakeet pondered puzzled at the python's reply:
"I see only the reflection of the glass I passed by."

Mid-summer breezes..
The scent of freshly cut grass
Death can smell so sweet.

The pipes are frozen,
no heat or water.
The toilet to the brim with **** again.
We'll need two buckets.  
One for the toilet,
And one to ask the neighbors for water.
She used the shovel,
I asked for water.
I always hated the looks I got.
Looks of pity,
and mixed with disdain.
I walk to the kitchen, trash littered.
I look in the fridge,
There is nothing there.
Thank god there was a free meal program.
I would rush to school,
to get there early.
To make sure I got enough to eat.
I feel lucky.
Some kids don't have it.
But I can't forget my ribs showing.
Partly depression.
Partly their drug use.
Food stamps sell for fifty cents per dollar.
I look around and
Notice things are gone.
My room missing things they pawned off for cash.
I was never home.
That did not exist.
Just a house full of people I burdened.
I get back from school,
And the house is dark.
Never know where they go when they are gone.
I go to my room.
And I sit and cry.
Wishing someone would come home to see me.
I wanted a life.
One that was normal.
One where I was not so empty inside.
And under the bed
A razor is tucked.
A lesson learned from watching my sister.
Suicides an option:
Another lesson,
As I watched her overdose on the floor.
Life was empty and...
Was intermingled..
With fear, and anxiety, and sadness.
I would peer across
to the neighbors house.
I wondered what it was like to be them.
Seeing happiness...
I had to suppress
All the heartache and tears I longed to spill.
What could I have done?
Was this punishment?
My wants were so simple but no one cared.
They did not like me.
I reminded them
Of a man whose faults they embellished.
I woke one morning.
I heard noise downstairs.
Most of our items were now all curbside.
We were evicted,
but no one told me.
One day you have a home, then you do not.
Sheriff department
The following spring
Came into our house and emptied it all.
My last memory
Was of the neighbors,
Watching our family, our life on the street.
We left most items.
We took what we could.
We found a ****** house by the train tracks.
The house was condemned,
the landlord cared little.
But...that house is a story for later.
Enduring these things,
Your dreams become simple.
You dream for things people take for granted.
My dream was simple.
It is still simple.
To love, and be loved.  To help those in pain.
When you scale the wall,
Do not hop over.
Turn back, and look down to those outstretched hands.
To those now struggling,
Keep pressing forward.
I know it seems daunting, keep pressing on.
You suffered too much
To not be happy.
Go through the swamp 'til you see the meadow.
It exists, it does.
Beyond the veil
Of pain and agony, joy is waiting.