My eyes look dark because I'm filled with compressed rage and malice bursting through the white meat. Inner peace is as distant as dreams from nights passed. I wonder if my face reflects my mentality. Are the fibers gripping my jaw wound as tight as my gaze? Static silence is air displaced by my throbbing mind, aching from head on collisions with reality. I'm not who I think I am . Rather I know who I am and I'm enraged that I'm not who I want to be.. Or maybe its the fact I've always been that person but my pond never reflected my image. I can see me now.

~I'm on my way home.
Memories greet me with a firm handshake, forcing my fist closed like pride, or rather pride closed my fist cause I've learned that my self defense was a defense of self.

~I left three days ago, and no one seems to know I've gone.
Well my heart left long before I did, as my ventricles began to vet the blood around me crying in vain "it poison us".. And they did with contradictory messages  restricting my confidence to a cell while wondering why I couldn't be positive.

~Home is where the hatred is. Home is filled with pain.
My past walks with me like shadows. It haunts my every step, ingrained in my soles. The many pieces I've had to carry to be some semblance of whole. An architect of my own happiness I've finally started building myself from ground up.

~So it might not be such a bad idea if I never, never went home again

We are forever authors till we're not.
We write every constant and every vowel, every verb and every noun, every tick and every tock.
Every moment of every day to the second.
A self published autobiographical series entitled anticipation.
Some chapters are longer than others.
Some filled with triumph and perseverance while others may be drowning in disappointment but no matter what happens we write.
Footnotes at the bottom of every page pushing into the next; formulating the action on the next page even the next chapter.
The only problem is, we don't know what we're writing. It'd be easy if our actions alone fueled every moment and decision in our lives but that's not the case. Rarely do we forge history.
For the most part, we react to it.
We can only reflect on what was written after the ink dries on the page; hoping that we live long enough to author our own endings.
Hoping that someone would read our books and see them as inspiration instead of a cautionary tale. Praying we at least get to finish.
You don't want to be the one whose....

I am the sharpest of double-edged swords with a soft handle.
Handle with care is a phrase that applies to the wielder rather than the victim. Its the cuts at self we're not ready for.
With emotions that can't be named because they're too intense; a horcruxed soul is the result.
Pieces that seem whole on their own without giving the full picture.
Rage, a flame only captured by the restraint of my skin, is natures monster yet its only a consequence.
What sparked the kindling wood?
Its hard to understand the discomfort of shoes you haven't walked in.
A bold yet reserved soul.. receptively ignorant.. emotionally invested while all the same detached.
You can feel the vibe but you can't feel me.
Struggling with being comfortable enough to expose my naked soul while racking my brain for the armor to shield you from the truth.
Sadly the possibility of sailing off without end is not likely.
I am chained to the anchors that are me in all their entirety.
We could try go forward but we wouldn't go far.
Our only accomplishment may be displacing grains of sand.
Funny but serious, a dreamer and a realist, stubborn and completely engaged while passive and fleeting.
All these spices and ingredients blend but can be too strong for one meal called cliche.
Guess the question is, can you stomach them?

The possibilities that light up a skyline seem endless.
There are so many outcomes. So many ways a life can turn without any inclination its right or wrong.
A glimmer could be a diamond shining through just as easily as it could be fools gold, or more specifically disappointment, reality's favorite trap.
All the lights are close enough that I can hold them with my gaze.. but I cant touch them.
They are the stars of my existence.
In this moment my only certainty is seated at the edge of the sidewalk 39 floors below.
Just waiting for the weight of my soul to pry my hands from the balcony that has me perched in a way that's reminiscent of the Titanic.
The pressures of the world weigh down on us all but in this moment, gravity is quite appealing.
Such a permanent solution to a fickle picture.
Even as I prepare to etch my last words with broken bones and blood and confusion and tears, my robe hangs over the rail for someone, anyone to pull me back.

Things that nobody talks about:
The desperation of loving someone who doesn't love you
How the sun feels warmer when you've spent a year being cold
The feeling of weightlessness after crying yourself to sleep
When he stares long and hard at you and smiles softly, making your eyes feel shy even when you are not
How people who used to exist in your orbit still take chunks off of your surface, even when you've taken so many hits you hardly exist.

Things that nobody talks about:
Even when you've moved on, even when you've found someone who loves you more, even when you've discovered better things, your skin remembers things best forgotten.

What is the measure of a good tree?
Is it how tall he stands?
Is it how thick and long his trunk is?
Is it how deep his roots spread?
Is it how little he bends to the wind or how he weathers the rain?
Does any of that even matter?
Are these ingredients necessities or icing on the cake?
Truth is no matter how tall he stands,
or how deep his roots are,
or how long is trunk is,
or how little he bends,
or how many environments he's weathered,
..none of it will matter.
His branches could stretch to the sun but if he doesn't have any leaves he won't measure up.
Cause whats the use of a tree that doesn't provide any shade?
Why wait for his winter to end when there's another who's forever green?