You're not quite human you know,
Or,
Maybe,
You are the most human out of anyone,
And all other people are just shells,
Shadows of what could be.
Your body is utterly perplexing,
It folds and bends and stays still,
In ways that my poor mind cannot comprehend.
You aren't quite human,
Or maybe you are the most human of all.
You tell me what you are thinking with a glance,
And nothing more,
Yet I am overcome with understanding.
You think and feel and touch like no other.
Like some celestial being,
You fill me with wonder and hope.
You are not human,
Because you are the most human.
People do not know how to live anymore,
People do not know how to love anymore.
With your great limbs,
Sweep up the remnants of this broken world,
And open our eyes,
To the great gift that is life as a human being

It is immovable.
The greatest teller of time,
The foundation of the very earth we dare to tread.
The culmination of millions of years,
Impossible pressure, heat, transformation,
This simple marvel,
Resides in my stomach.
It is the biggest stone to ever rest upon the earth,
It does not budge,
It is here to stay,
Down my throat, it slipped and it now rests,
Forevermore.

A bird is perched on my left index finger.
She tweets here and there,
Nary often.
Sometimes she is pleasant,
Other times she tears my soul in two.
She has been waiting, patiently,
For 16 years she has been waiting.
I need to release my song and listen to hers.
She seldom sings because I muffle her,
So that I don't hear the sadness,
The apologies,
The begging for attention.
She stays perched on my left index finger,
Always,
She always will be.
One day,
She will be singing and I will know the tune.

I love him
I tell myself
I know that
We will be together forever
I don’t believe that
We could be separated
My thoughts tell me that
He’s the love of my life
Sometimes my heart lies and says
I could live an eternity
Without him
Like my friends say
“We’re perfect for each other”
And you can’t tell me
He’s not the one.

Now read from bottom to top.

Dark have been the days of late.
Feasting upon the rotting flesh of suns past,
None shall be delivered.
Grown too tall,
Hungered far in excess of what any stomach could carry,
Carried farther than any man dareth venture.
A ceaseless machine,
Cries out in smoke,
The ghastly thing spews,
Waste, lies, misery,
Upon those unknowing folk who drinketh from deceiving waters.
Strong trees stand no longer,
Delicate flowers of darkened shades,
Pilfer the landscape.
Intoxicating petals, formerly fair,
Trigger a grand collapse of the self.
Birds flutter hastily,
Stars spin before wide eyes,
A veil unending shields against the truth.
Many fear I hath become a madman.
The last star fades behind the peak,
The valley grows dark,
‘Tis the fate of I to fall into oblivion.
Methinks that sheep are blind, yet loyal,
Holding course without falter,
Keeping pace with the masses.
I apologize, dear listener,
For I fall into old cliches.
The stone that breaketh herds,
With force unmoving yet natural,
I stand before thee as a lone stranger,
Plowing against trivial time.
Betrayed by my own kin,
Great hammers are forced upon delicate fingers,
Hand over hand climbing ever onward,
With mangled digits.
My palms very nearly caress the precipice,
Idle hope keeps legs steady,
Mind weary,
Soul ever searching.

I am minuscule.
Shame and remorse lie on my breath,
An ample bed.
Fear overcame me,
And thus I was deceived by my own self.
An abundance of cowardliness,
That lead to pain and suffering,
Continuing ever still.
My mind and will are weak,
But bound by love,
I hope to keep.
Fear,
That I will never be good enough.
Too many mistakes.
Too many slips and falls.
Too many cliches.
Too much dependency.
Too much weakness.
Too much reliance.
Too much regret.
Not enough affection.
Not enough truth.
Not enough surety, confidence.
Not enough time.
I fear,
That I will not grow fast enough.

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.