Sometimes I wish that you had chosen her.
Or I suppose, really, that she had chosen you.
So that you'd be with her, the girl that, in hindsight,
now that I'm thinking about it, probably would be really good for you.
Maybe she would take care of you, do everything for you, and not mind or complain the way I sometimes do that bothers you. I'm sorry I do that, I don't mean to make you feel like a burden, it's just heavy sometimes to carry the weight of another and I'm strong but my endurance isn't impeccable.
Maybe she would stay quiet and inside her head, the way you do, so you could both go about your day talking about how ****** the world is but never how ****** you feel, the way I try to do but sometimes can't.
Maybe she'd be okay with being passive, maybe none of her friends would tell her to be more confrontational, maybe you'd consider her courage when she tried to be regardless.
Maybe she wouldn't accuse you of anything because she had every reason to trust you and the world around her. 
Maybe you could trust her enough to let her in your head for a second. 
Maybe she'd do anything for you, like I try to do, and maybe you just might fight to do the same, not so much like you try to do with me.

And I just kept thinking, and repeating to myself,
"God we think we're all invincible.
God, we think we're invincible.
God we think we're invincible."
And if there really were a god, he surely would have made us so.

why would you bother asking if i'd like you to stay when you know you're going to leave anyway?
you give me the illusion of choice you so often complain about in the outside world.
why do you pretend eagerness at helping me when I never asked for it, but then refuse to give it when I do?

be the change you wish to see
and let my mind rest independently.

It's not poetry unless it's spilling out of your mouth.
The only words I wanna read are the ones your hands wrote.
The only mind I want to be taught by is the one inside of you.

If only besos could fuel this old Pontiac
Then again,
Even then I'd probably still run out of gas

When I was younger, my dream was to make it to Australia, move there and build a life. I always thought this small Louisiana town was where I was born, but not where I belonged; Canberra was where my real heart and home was.
I met someone.
But that person sneezes and coughs the polluted air around here too.
Lately, it seems the 17 hour time difference isn't far enough from this dusty place I still haven't gotten away from.
Maybe if we could travel light-years, we'd finally be home.
I know he gets close sometimes, in his head.
I can see the distance and I can imagine the world he's built, with waves and petals and jasper, and you can feel the clean and rhythmic pulsing of the atmosphere and the creatures there all roam free and take care of others in need,
the words never linger on the tip of tongues, rather they spill out in poetic truth and your head was always feather-like and the all knowing man in the sky was the one inside your own vessel, and you worried not about what you had to do to keep your pockets full but the simplest form of survival and the currency was smiles
and it didn't matter if there was a slight gap in your teeth or if you ever had morning breath, because it is all so beautiful, so perfect.
It is a dream.

I often wonder if my idea of the place he'd rather be is anything like the one he actually desires.
I wonder if he'd take me with him to this Utopia, had he had the chance to go.
I wonder if, in this perfect paradise, it would be my hand in his.