You writhe and wriggle,
In rooms of smoke and acidic air.
Poised to strike at the very first chance you see.
Emotion no longer has consequence,
When desire overpowers with such ease.
Brains long bereft of tender touches,
Now drool and snarl and ****** and devour.
How can it be that bodies so young are so vile,
As to deliver themselves to the nearest stranger.
It seems the wonderful art of loving is being lost,
To the wicked craft of *******.
Youth are corrupted, influenced, brought low,
By thoughts, ideas and actions centuries behind us.
The time has come for the young and old to touch tenderly, lovingly,
To touch with meaning, dedication, and good intentions.
To touch as though all humans are flowers.
Flowers need tending, attention, they need a steady and consistent hand,
Otherwise they shall falter,
And this is not my desire for the human race.

I’m tired

Mentally

Emotionally

Physically

I’m tired of over thinking

I’m tired

I’m tired of it all

I’m tired of her

I’m tired of him

I’m tired of this feeling

Deep inside my chest

That makes me want to rip everything out

Tear me to shreads

But I can’t do that

I can’t have another 11 a.m. kitchen sink surgery

I’m tired of crying

Tired of feeling guilty

Tired of feeling unloved

Tired of forcing myself to eat

Tired of shaking

Tired of feeling empty

Tired of being numb

I’m tired.

I’m tired of always sleeping

I’m tired of forcing myself to do things

I’m tired of wanting to be liked

I’m tired of hating my body

I’m tired

I’m tired

She is there,
And I am here.
The expanse between us might as well be that of an ocean.
How is it that a few hours can nearly tear two souls apart.
Dust on a shelf, she rests on my heart,
A pen in one hand and a paintbrush in the other.
A distance seemingly the size of an ocean,
Shall not dare do us part.
My shadow is not my own,
I glance behind and the silhouette of a woman is what I see.
My mind is her pillow,
And an imprint of her head lay there indefinitely.
There is a sweetness, hers,
That runs circles in my blood.
Brushing wild grass hair,
Words spill out onto pages that only she may see.
Every so often she shares these pages with me.
To love not would be demise,
And thus I wish her mine until days are gone.

Perhaps there is some great unknown beyond what our simple eyes can reach for in the corners of clouds.
Perhaps when I look up at the sky I do not see blue, I see an expanse of quilted blanket painstakingly crafted by a woman of impossible beauty.
Perhaps we are all coats worn daily until our pockets don't hold loose change and our sleeves are tattered, and we are hung up for the last time.
Perhaps there is more to life than what is experienced in life and as the last breath of air flows lazily from our lungs the world pans out and it is so very small and delicate but special.
Perhaps we are here because we are so very insignificant and that is beautiful.
Perhaps the lake freezes over but life continues beneath the surface, thrives even.
Perhaps the moment of death, after the final breath, is a moment of understanding that could never be obtained in life because you finally understand that we are all just small beautiful people and nothing can change that, but the idea that we are so small is so very big because we think everything matters so very much but what we really need to understand is that a life is a letter in a never-ending fantasy series about how one little imperfection spawned a beautiful mess of hydrogen and oxygen and nitrogen and molecules and compounds that formed and bonded and created cells that created life.
Perhaps I am a rambling madman that knows nothing of the significance or insignificance of life.
Perhaps I have unheard insight into what may or may not be.
Perhaps we need to live and love and die as a people and not as a person.
Perhaps we need to feel every death as if it were our own.
Perhaps each one of us is united through sheer existence.
Perhaps.

I stood upon the edge of all that exists
A beacon of humankind
Something beckoned me out there
To that far place
I was drawn from my domain
To the bustling void
A place so sparse and full
Unending light met by the deepest black
My eyes darted from there to here
Constantly collapsing in on themselves and immediately being reborn
I stood upon the edge of all that exists
And I ascended
My irises met strings
They wove their way into and through my entire being
I was raised, and I was amongst the travellers of time
Those who care not for pettiness nor grief
All I knew was existence
And my mind was met by a bed of kneaded time
The cold comfort of everything and nothing at all overtook who I was
I appeared a mere shell, but love made my white and yolk
My candles were draped over scattered hooks, and I was beautiful
I stood upon the edge of all that has ever been, all that is and all that will be
I was in my place.

I love her, that's it.
There is no why or how,
No when and where.
There is no binding document,
No "terms and conditions".
Why do organisms evolve?
To become better, to thrive.
I think of this when I am asked why.
How is it that a creature as small as the ant is one of the most successful?
They work together and put every fiber of their being to one purpose.
I think of this when I am asked how.
When the universe began, is that when time began?
If so, that is when.
Where may one feel life reverberate in the beautiful emptiness of all that exists?
The answer to this is where my love does lay.