Brick
        By
            Brick
A house is built
Hour
        By
            Hour
The house becomes a home
Day
        By
            Day
The home turns into memories
Year
        By
            Year
The memories turn into people
Century
        By
            Century
The people turn into stories
Story
        By
            Story
Stories turn into legends
Legend
        After
            Legend
History is changed
Piece
        By
            Piece
Lives are changed
Person
        By
            Person
Love is spread
One Love
        After
            Another
Bricks are purchased
That build houses
That turn into homes
That create memories
That turn into people
That turn into stories
That turn into legends
That change history
And it all started with
Just. One. Brick.

Frequently,
I race across the words
reading too rapidly,
missing the depths
of descriptive sounds,
and failing to engage
the full immersive array
of language the writer displays
because I wish to portray
the fiction of a deep person
who reads intelligently.

The slippery seeds
of discontent
are spent
on the soft
and fertile soil
of my fractured soul.

Anger fuels
a field of fury
and I push myself
beyond the simple confines
of physical comfort
and a sane mine.

I plant my feet
and feel the soft earth
part and slowly swallow
the portions of me
that are hopelessly hollow.

The rage against
human violence
and the impoverishment
of humanity,
the devastation
of the sharp blades
of heartbreak
from rejection
form a sword
of self-hate
that I use to
cut away
any weeds
that might impede
my growing season.
The pliable dirt,
soft brown earth
allows me to sink in
for the final planting.

All my seeds drop
rage,
pain,
fear,
doubt.

Then in the spring
something unforeseen
comes blooming.

Instead of a sick
and disgusting human thing
full of deformities,
a new creature emerges
for the harvesting.
A long stalk
of self-improvement,
a truly creative,
and compassionate being
is freed,
and I harvest him.
He nourishes me
as I strive to be
the man
I always wanted to be.

Finding a lover is effortless
for some people.
They only want a few things:
Someone attractive, kind,
funny or rich.

But
I desire
something so much deeper.

I want

an intelligent mind
that wakes up thoughts in me
I didn't realize were hibernating.

I want

to converse, analyze and debate
without being conscious of
the sun rising and falling
between our words.

I want

to make a witty remark
at a coffee shop
so he can reply sarcastically
just for me to jab back immediately
and for him to comeback back playfully
until we're both laughing
stomachs shaking
spit flying
the whole store staring
and we leave
without coffee

I want

our hands to stitch together
perfectly
like two lost puzzle pieces;
one found under a couch cushion
one found inside a junk drawer.
The rest of the puzzle has
already been thrown away
but
these two pieces remain
and they fit.

I want

to fall in love together
then together fall in love with
art, museums, songs, poems
T.V shows, radio jingles,
greek food, backroads,
our mutual hatred for pop culture,
doing the dishes (as long as he washes and I dry)
wrong turns, piled up laundry, life.
Just fall in love with life.

I want

to hurt with him

I want

to save the world with him

I want

to meet, see, understand
and experience all that is foreign
with him.

I think it will only take us meeting
and it'll only be history and happiness from then on.

It's just a matter of if a love like that could ever be
and if a love like that could ever be for me.