A cross is what I remember
Because her shirt formed a cross across her ***** perfectly framing her enticingly beautiful neck
I built up the courage and using a phenomenally cheesy one liner I started talking to a total beauty
I remember thinking that for once I cared more about the sparkle in her dazzlingly enchanting eyes
Than her curvaceously elegant body
Her perfect curves
I let my mind wander
And I think that maybe I'll get to see her and we'll get to know each other
I let my mind wander to that so called ffirst kiss and I can barely breath at that thought
I imagine all these things
As if it were possible
As if we weren't seperated by 8 hours of driving

When you are a poet
you don't place yourself on a pedestal
don't spit venomous hate
think fellow writers are dismal.

When you are a poet
you don't feel a superiority
fellow writers you gleefully berate
make yourself perversely witty.

When you are a poet
your heart is a little more wide
you don't fume and fret
readers are not on your side.

If you are a poet
you know better than to be arrogantly vain
don't carry ego's sinful weight
but let your art pour through your pen.

This concept of a parodox haa fascinated me
It is
For example
Safe to say that there is an outside within our phones
(Assuming that you have a picture of the outdoors on your phone)
It's like taking freedom and free will and forcefully taking a part of it and putting freedom inside a cage
(A wonderful ring of irony in that)
And we can also create an outside within our minds
(Assuming that you have an imagination)
The difference being however that we steal nothing of that freedom
We just make our own one

So ask yourself

Which one am I?
The one that takes from freedom
Or the one that creates it

It's fascinating isn't it?
How we can be on an eight hour trip
And we see nothing outside
Excepts the outside inside our phones

Intangibly, it cometh and goeth.
Substanceless it slips in transition from one immeasurable instant to the next. Equitable to infinite space, in terms of distance, infinite time is a concept quite alien to the finite human mind. There is no proof of existence, it is a human conception with no sensory component, an illusion and utterly immeasurable in real terms with only a human contrivance to calibrate it....(and poorly at that).
Time is the silken zephyr on which we lay our dreams and aspirations. It is the currency of deep religion and is regarded as the ultimate sword hand of God. Incorruptible and absolute it brooks no favour, seeks no fame. Irreversible in it's cold implacable, unquenchability it merely, unfeelingly.... proceeds.
M.