It's weird. You go on living. The world around you moves. It's like every day. Every breath. Maybe that's what it is, what you breath. There is this feeling. It's almost like a flutter. Like the wold just tells you- "stop. Look at what I made for  y o u  I did this. Now do what you will with what I made". And you do. You take this, this feeling the world around you gave, and make art. The feeling, the
r u s h, it's indescribable. Yet here I am, trying to describe it. This art you make, this feeling that courses throughout your veins, it feels so real and yet it is so much more than this world. So much more that the sky above your mind, more than the ground beneath your feet, more than the blood running through you. How can something,this feeling,  be so much more than everything yet be nothing? Art. It is so beautifully composed, isn't it?

your eyes
            are
          so explosively
   captivating
                    i feel like i
   float in space
                 every time
      your blue
                    and
                          my green
               collide,
    creating a new earth.

She always loved a little magic.
But, don't we all
Admire the art in deception and
Manipulation of the truth?

I guess we all love a little magic.
Maybe, even too much but
We are taught to do what we love.

So she picked up her wand,
All smeared in black,
Her eyelashes her stage,
And performed her illusion.

To know her is not just knowing her
name, birthday and her favorites.

No, to know her you have to notice all the
little things that make her, her.

The way her fingers tap when her favorite
song is playing out loud.

The way her eyes always search for that
one particular person in the crowd.

The way she holds back a smile when
his name is mentioned.

Most of all, how she is when she is all by herself.

Nothing shows better how a person is,
than their behavior alone.
Then she is a hundred percent herself,
and that, my love, is the girl you want to know.

I've reheated the same
Cup of coffee five times
This evening

Trying to write something
For myself that accurately
Describes how I experience

Often I am flooded in the ordinary
By the emotion and the density
Of life itself, in all its majesty

And sometimes I am left
Devoid of sentiment
In moments deemed worthy

I get lost in thinking of
The way the future will
Tangle with the present

I find myself stopped in
A memory as well,
A reminder, a fragment of past

The present is a fleeting concept
A paradox, I think
A circle of thought

At what point
Does the future become the present?
And the present become the past?

Whenever you feel sad, remember to look up and see the moon. Somewhere and someone is looking at it too. You are not alone