It’s funny how you can see somebody on a regular basis,
But not know them at all…
How you can see the outward appearance,
But not see who they are?

There’s a guy I know, or… I think I know him.
I do not know his name.
He tries to dress well; He slicks his hair back, but…
Who’s he gonna impress?

I keep these thoughts to myself, because I’m afraid to ask.
Really, I’m embarrassed.
We both laugh and take advice from the same people.
Are we really dif’rent?

He stands short of height and expectations,
There with a crooked smile.
He appears to have a positive energy about him.
I can only guess why.

It’s funny how these thoughts take a tumble in my brain,
Yet they don’t escape my mouth.
Maybe I should speak up. This is another human being.
…
Maybe this isn’t funny at all.

She should have written a book, I wish,
Her eyes having seen more words than mine; her ears having heard more tone.

She should have written a book, you see,
Her wisdom beyond her years, she knew, she held an everlasting soul.

She should have written a book, I know,
For books defined her past, and books, I know, she read them through.

She should have written a book, but now
Her story remains unknown to all; her posterity stands anew

And she jumped
She jumped out of her comfortable, plush launching pad
And she tried
She tried to set every fan to crosswind towards
And she hoped
She hoped that, when she jumped, her cape would carry her
And she fell
She fell onto the shagged carpet, on her hands and knees
And she did
She did all of this, yet she moved on to more fun
And she went
She went on to ride her bike, more confident in her peddling, than jumping
And she knew
She knew that the ground was much safer

A question? A response.
He leads her onto the floor.
A thought? A wonder.
"It's crazy how someone-i(m)p(e)rfect-could feel so perfect in this moment."
A move? A dance.
He sways her into his arms.
A desire? A plea.
"If only he realized-finally-
that I only wanted this moment."
A pause? An end.
She sighs...

A question? A response.
He lead her onto the floor.
An action? An excitement.
He didn't even know.
A move? A dance.
She wanted to be in his arms.
A smile? A plea.
She only wanted this.
A pause? An end.
Thank you...

A jack of all trades and a master of none.
What does this mean to you?
I have my hands in a thousand cookie jars when I should have my hand in one.

A jack of all trades and a master of none.
What does this mean for me?
I need to survive financially, yet I urge to have some fun.

A jack of all trades and a master of none.
What can I mean with my talent?
I don't know where I'll end up or how,
but out of all of the possibilities
for a future... I need...

I need to write.
I need to express my ideas in a way that make sense.

I need to write.
I need to dissolve my thoughts onto paper, no matter how intense.

I need to write.
I need to share the knowledge I've obtained and make an impression.

I need to write.
I don't know in what form I'll create this, but this is my intention.

What's a sentence?
A group of words and thought?
No, silly, it's not.

What's a novel?
A group of sentences and plot?
Not really, it's not.

Then what is this,
With books upon it's shelves?
That is the doorway to the lives of many who dream to no longer sit by themselves.

I See a picture,
Dear with color bright.
Its whimsical strokes,
A smooth, but lovely, Sight.

I Smell the paint,
A sense not faded yet.
Like prints left exposed,
With the trail's fine Scent.

But underestimated, the Tool,
And ability to express
The ideas my head
Conjures as a coordinated mess.

Yes, the paintbrush,
Much simpler than I,
Yet it works its hardest,
While I don't even try.

When I look into those green eyes
all I see are stops signs sayin'
"chill out and breathe."

When you look at me,

it
seems

like this world is slowin' down, but
my heart keeps beating.

I can't
breathe.

The butterflies are way too much, yet
you keep on speaking

I don't believe you understand
how much I wanna hold your hand.

You call me beautiful,
well, guess what...

You're beautiful too.

Upon the dark night, striking three;
A tick representing each step in time,
but time overwhelmed by a trinity
of peace, and a plan greater than one's wildest dreams.

As the trees clap their praises unto a summer wind, and
waves flood the skies with their roaring rumbles of exaltation,
a bird sings unto the dark night her song, unique, sweet, and free-spirited

Another beauty upon the night, a tulip,
blossoming, not fully grown, in admiration of this free spirit, the bird.
The tulip observes from a distance the song the bird sings

A praise, a never ending thankfulness
"Thank You for the trees,
Thank You for the waves,
And thank You for me," the bird sings.

In awe of the song bird, the tulip longs to grow, to blossom, to fly, to sing;
Oh, the joy, the praise, the song she'll bring
when fully grown to exemplify her thanks to the three

But, Hold! The clock ticking three, a breath He takes.
The songs of beauty the bird once sang
are silenced more than a whisper

Oh, dear, wilting Tulip; she wonders,
"Why?" she misunderstands, "Why has the bird's song been hushed?"
Oh, so joyful with praise, the songs she sang,
but now unto another Audience, unheard by the flower;

However, the sun rises, the flower realizes,
A new day is upon her. The trees clap their praises unto a summer wind, and
Waves flood the skies with their roaring rumbles of exaltation,
Just like any other day.

Partaking in full bloom overnight, grown, she hears the call of three:
You're unique, sweet, and your free-spirit will sing,
for the steps of time past quicker than the steady rhythm of that clock ticking

Fly free, song bird,
Your legacy will only grow sweeter with time
As the bloom of a tulip smiles and praises the One unto which your song once thrived.

There’s a reason these pieces of entertainment
have earned themselves the title of “puzzles.”
You would think that once you sat down with them, that
it’d be relaxing,
                            it’d be fun,
                                               it’d be easy.
But they’re not.
They’re confusing, rightfully so.
And once you finally think you understand them,
they throw a cu
                           rve
                                 ba
                                      ll
They don’t fit. They seem so stubborn, so misunderstood.
But this isn’t their fault,           entirely.
This complementary relationship requires my eyes.
I   must    see   the big   picture.
I need to
                                        stop
                                                and understand
how important every detail is.

This task requires
patience,
                                     so I wait.

I wait for the perfect piece, an inner piece,
In all its beauty, to complete the picture that was envisioned.

My writing is not like the others',
The pin-pricked prowess of principal in
another author's cite is indifferent to mine:
The spice in soliciting that salivating bite,
the singe that would make Tobasco sauce cry-
My words have no such gripe.
Instead, I write
A mellow slumber that is my words,
Carefully thought of, written, or typed.

Rainy days and dripping windows-
I look out. A mystical creature
Tiptoes into my front yard, knowing
He carries on his back the feature
Presentation: a man, maybe a knight.
His boots creak, walking up the steps
Of my front porch, a simpler sight
Than those from Romeo and Juliet
And other fairytale stories.
I slip on my fuzzy socks with gripping
Bottoms and head towards the door.
Silence. I open, and with his hand extending,
My feet join his on the wooden floor.
"Where are we going? I'm not sure
If I can be dressed like this and go that far."
He told me "The clouds are pure.
You just come as you are."