This is a questionable poem written because I have a whole bunch of curiosities.
I was sitting in my Arizona home like I do on cold days like today
when it occurred to me that
people today are severely lacking in pure curiosity.
I mean, sure, people are curious about some things;
What will happen if I mix drugs with alcohol? What will happen if I eat this Tide Pod?
I wonder if I'll die if I point this gun at my head and pull the trigger.
Sure, all those things are intriguing thoughts, but,
what about thoughts on pollution and world hunger? I feel like that's more important to wonder about.
Or, perhaps people could be more curious about who they really are.
What do they like? Do they know what they want from life? Why are they so mainstream?
These days I find that so many people are in it for the aesthetic.
That they're not being who they are.
Every person I have met has two faces; they remind me of the infamous Greek theatre masks.
I don't think anybody really know who they are, and I find that curious,
in a sad, peculiar, disappointing way.
It's curiously comical.

A noiseless patient spider,
I marked where on a promontory it stood isolated,
Marked how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be formed, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somwhere, O my soul.

It was a crystal clear night in the winter months.
Though for some reason, the lake wasn't frozen over.
I could see the moon's reflection, and was standing at the shore
when two pairs of footsteps approached me.
A pier manifested over the lake,
leading to a white house on the other side.
"Hey," he said.
I was so shocked that I became a statue.
"It's okay. I'm not angry at you anymore."
He looked at me with a genuine smile. I missed being his friend,
even in light of what happened between us.
I was silent. I didn't say a word.
I don't think I needed to.
He accepted my silent apology.
"Grab my hand and don't let go."
I took his hand, paler than the moonlight,
but warmer than fire.
We walked across the pier, just me, him, and Hunter;
Hand in hand, almost skipping.
The stars were endless, and the temperature was surprisingly warm for the middle of the night in the winter.
We got inside the house and the three of us sat down on the couch.
He gave me a Gameboy and we started to play Pokémon.
Just the three of us.
Like nothing had ever happened.
And I think I miss him more than the anger that I held for him.
More than words can say.

I had a dream of a dead friend once.
Words cannot describe how it made me feel.
He's been dead since May 2017,
but I feel him alive everywhere around me.
I see him,
In Garrett's curly hair.
I see him,
In the fiery red locks that Bridget has.
I see him,
In the blue eyes of my best friend.
I see him in the freckles on Julayne's face.
A long time ago,
I would have said that I hated him.
Maybe a part of me still does.
But a part of me also wishes that I could have said my peace
before the inevitable death came to be.

Why make so much of fragmentary blue
In here and there a bird, or butterfly,
Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye,
When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?

Since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven (as yet)—
Though some savants make earth include the sky;
And blue so far above us comes so high,
It only gives our wish for blue a whet.

I've been feeling out of breath lately.
My lungs don't inflate properly anymore.
Waking up is the most taxing task that I have to accomplish on a daily basis.
I've been sleeping in,
And even after I wake up I stay in bed for hours.
It feels like the weight of the world
is crushing my chest.
Like an anvil is being dropped on my shoulders a hundred times a day.
I feel like Giles Corey;
Crushed by the weight of falling rocks.
Rocks that look like people I know.
Rocks that feel like sorrow and death and tears.
Being pressed to death by demons that accuse me of wrongness,
by demons who surround my head with dark thoughts;
by demons who claw at my throat,
tell me to do bad things.
I'm constantly running from the black mist in my mind.
Trying not to be swallowed by it.
But I can feel these shadows on my back,
and what lurks in this darkness nipping at my ankles.
And the more I run,
the more out of breath I feel.
And when I turn to give in to the shadows,
I have no more breath.
I can't inhale, because I've been crushed.
I suffocate; I can feel my soul dying a little,
Piece by piece, it crumbles until I am nothing.
I am out of breath now.