I love those who are not above me
nor below me.

The beast follows her, day in and day out.
The shadow casts on her bones,
her skull comes dry.
The idea of running is too costly.
Her halted heart and plastic thoughts
no longer reflect her eyes,
now a misty glass.
My pen draws her on the paper,
words,
knowing I will never be the only mind to ***** through these words,
My innermost thoughts,
but still there are things my audience will never know.
As beautifully magical as words may be,
what could ever describe the feeling of a certain place,
on a certain day?
Thoughts too beautiful no words could give them justice.
So instead, we die with those memories.
Our minds immersed in the ground,
the sea,
the sky,
the stars.
So we sit,we wait,
in a white, blank, canvas.
Only painting in our heads.

The truth is something no one wants to hear you say,
just go on your way and have a nice day.  -Unknown

The difference between a writer and everyone else,
A writer needs no recognition for their work,
They do not lust for what wealth they might gain,
A good writer does not need applause,
Does not need praise,
Does not need rewards,
Does not even need to be published.
A good writer is partial talent,
A good writer writes often.
A good writer see's the world,
      and its finest details.
They stay behind for the ending,
         the rolling credits.
They make tea and drink coffee.
They fall in love too quickly,
and fall out of love just as fast.
A good writer translates feelings into words,
they form it to flow like a soft stream.
A good writer is quiet.
A good writer is loud.
They carry their tools everywhere they go.
They enjoy the tangible.
The soft paper on their hands,
the way the ink bleed from the pen.
A good writer writes in all ways,
about all things,
and all emotions.
A good writer is a historian,
an endless burning torch,
their words will forever inspire the world,
As a single soul.

Follow me, dust to dust.
Our aching feet will rejoice once again,
Where the leaves fall
and the stars explode into the glittery cosmos.
Speckled with atheism and creationism at once.
Where no man falls under rule
and no crates of bone return home.
Where empty minds don't exists,
and knowledge is sought through recreation.
And dogs don't wear the suit and tie,
and women are men too,
where kids imagine,
where parents say yes.
Where our reach is endless.
Where the metal bullet collects layers of dust.
When what needs to be said will be said,
and the new is no longer our worst fear.
When I no longer sit and wait,
and instead I hear and now.
With my scattered and erased etcha-sketch mind,
I follow the noise and not the cattle.
When everything I say will be true.
Oh lead me to the sight of those years.