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.

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.

There is life outside my window.
Fresh winds blow from the east,
Bringing with them crisp ocean air.
Creeks and rivers are washing,
Whisking away the last remnants of winter.
Through my window, I see the sun,
The sky so blue and a world anew.
In my room, through my window,
I observe, with experiences few.

Within my room, through my window,
You may see me, trapped,
As if bound by iron rings.
The trees are ready,
And I too, am
Ready to shake hands with spring.

Your rose petal lips kiss breezes softly by.
Along your cheeks,
Glassy rivers smoothly glide.
Two bright suns peek out from beneath moonlit sky,
Overlapped with rich darkness,
Beautiful and shy.
From a mountain of the gentlest curve,
A gust of wind comes down,
Scattering your rose petals all around.
Containing all of these wonders,
A valley.
Two crests so very distant,
Come slowly together, down.
Between these crests,
The mountain, the rivers, the roses, breeze, moonlit sky, and suns,
All lie,
And hence is where your beauty can always be found.

Hm.
A thought.
Something resting upon the brink of something bigger,
That melts away into oblivion.

It was dark,
And there was rain.
I could barely see the reflection of the lifeless city sky,
In the shallow puddles,
I was passing over.
The pavement,
It took the form of a rough-backed beast,
That wanted nothing but to devour all,
All except me.

I felt lonely.

The world passes on,
And I remain.
Drops of water tap me gently.
I wish it would rain down, hard.
I wish it would rain tears,
So that I knew I wasn't alone.
Ripples, small ripples,
Shake me,
And I feel like I don't matter.

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.

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.

Power deceives,
And ill minds contrive.
Follow as you are lead,
Be happy to be alive!
Pay no attention to foul deeds,
Schemed and completed behind closed doors.
There lay flowers and candy for those,
Who forget wrongdoings forevermore.
Beware of hungry beasts,
That knaw on your tender mind.
To those who create of their own free will,
You are likely the last of your kind.
This angry world has no room for lovers,
For those who cherish and support.
All too often, it seems like fear,
Is the last, and most effective, resort.
False lives are drawn up,
And strung upon coathooks.
Observe beyond and you will see,
These lives were derived from cookbooks.
Cookie cutter lives.

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 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.

I am unable to cry
All of my rivers have run dry
The infinite emptiness inside
Why can’t I cry

I dearly wish for that savory release
Falling as autumn leaves
Falling down upon my knees
How I beg for savory release

I cannot help but let my chin down
My arms hang so low my knuckles scrape the ground
An incalculable loss, never to be found
When things are looking up my chin stays down

I shall feel happiness nevermore
My vision remains clouded by closèd doors
Longing for the sweet youth of yore
I shan’t feel happiness anymore

So cold,
Ash and dust,
Love overcome by lust.
Lost love,
Born of jealousy,
The inability to let go.
Born of darkest parts of the mind that are shown.

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.

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.

If your eyes are oceans,
Then my eyes are ships,
Sailing through turbulent seas.
My sails know where to guide me,
A light shines through even the darkest of times,
A light that you illuminated,
The moment you touched my hand.

There is nothing more to say than "hello".
Expanding its breadth,
The sun waves,
And I smile back.
"Hello"

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

In some twisted way,
I almost feel happy.
My body is tense,
My breathing rapid,
My mind skirts the edges of insanity.
My conscience hangs by a mere thread,
Dangling precariously over the edge.
In some twisted way,
I almost feel whole.
The dark that rapes me holds me steady,
It fills in the spaces otherwise unoccupied.
There are unexplored oceans,
Haunted by ghostly ships,
Rising high on the crest of the evening tide.
A beautiful, terrifying event to witness.
In some twisted way,
I see black as a colour.
The speck that grows in a distant corner,
Nearing its full force,
Is elegant.
Ever so gently, it drains my free will.
It absorbs my ambition, my desire to accomplish,
The very air in my lungs is anything but my own.
I am the black, just as the black is me.
In some twisted way,
I feel powerful.
The disdain I feel for myself,
Cannot be outweighed.
It moves, breathes death,
And with a mind of its own it consumes me.
Until, I have been overcome,
And the grass is grey,
Birds shriek in terror,
Waves crash violently against jagged stone,
Laughter turns to mockery,
Food is poison,
Sleep is a crypt,
Life is a tomb.

Fresh, sour,
Cowardly and brave,
All lives within.
Tales of fear and valour,
Novels that turn into trilogies that turn into mysteries.
None shall tell the tale.
Not mind,
Nor face,
Nor body.
I am life,
And I am a mystery.

Can there be no balance between what a person can do and what they hypothetically need to do?
Can we not let our children decide for themselves what their futures hold?
Can everyone please respect one another and their decisions?
Can we not remove ourselves from our immense egos and just take it all in for what it is?
Is it impossible for us to feel love for other people due to the blatant fact that they too are human beings who have been hurt, who have loved, who feel and care and try and fail and do all of the things that are so **** human?
We are all we have,
so we better learn to love each other.

What stories hide beneath the skin?
What rich knowledge?
What puzzles to solve, doors to unlock?
What landscapes to explore?
Oceans undiscovered,
Ripe with creatures beyond comprehension.
Lands of mysterious hues,
Shaded, bright, and beautiful.
Layer upon layer,
Row upon row,
Floor atop floor,
It is seemingly impossible to see it all.
Our minds fold at the thought of ourselves.

Back to the country,
To the careful hills,
Gentle ponds and weeping clouds.
Where trees tell tales,
Saturated with knowledge and wisdom,
And the lilies grow bright there too.
Back where time has little consequence,
Where hours melt and obliterate,
Where it does not matter.
There is a stream,
With brush skirting the banks,
So tall it stoops over,
And drinks from the cool water.
There are birds that chant,
Rhythmically, beautifully,
Beckoning to unfound lovers,
A dream in motion and song.
There, in the country,
Great Gods rumble below the earth,
Rearranging the mighty furniture of the landscape,
So carefully that it is hard to notice,
Yet so dramatically that only a fool could not tell.
In this country, one may find peace,
Through the washing of the water,
The knowledge of the trees,
And the love of the birds,
Tender yet unrelenting.

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.

Trees whistle solemn tunes,
Clouds roll around in bed together,
And people are scattered sparsely.
The sun has departed,
My heart wavers,
I feel loved?
Ha, hardly.

Welcome! The great abyss,
The depth of sub-feeling, Despair
Has nary a ceiling,
The space that quells light,
The great beast that lurks in
Corners, timid but growing steady,
Ready to lunge at your swollen throat,
Welcome you, most humbly.
Plenty of good fun to be had, yes,
No need to quiver, nor shiver nor shriek,
Won't you reply? Listen well, Heathen,
Then speak!

"I haven't a way to reply,
As it seems my mouth has gone,
Perhaps you could help me, sir?
I have travelled through the long dark,
Tarried little and fought hard, though
I know not where I am,
For all that I see is bleak, colourless,
And without life.
Without shape in fact, even
You, who speaks in dark riddles,
Seemingly a bearer of poor news,
Have no shape whatsoever.
Perhaps you could help me, sir?"

Lo! You do not know?
Oh! This is good fun,
To be the bearer,
The carrier eternal, of
This so-called poor news.
Many similar passages I have borne,
In ages past. Time has wrought,
Anguish ridden, crestfallen,
Severe souls,
And they are delivered!
Like a crane to a chimney,
Time brings great gifts to my halls.
Listen here now, heathen,
And listen well,
For your everlasting fate,
That which you deserve, Is here
In the depths of hell.

How can I make you feel my love?
My love, that swings through the dense jungle of my mind,
And swims circles in the oceans of my chest.
The love that thrives in me,
That cries and dives deep.
Maybe I can send it in a letter,
Better yet I'll send myself.
Let's just lay down awhile,
And watch the ceiling.
Let the fly on the wall know,
What it means to fall,
Into the folds of another