We are ****** into the reflective pools of narcissism that we hang on the walls,
pushing us further into the millions of
personalized tunnels of vanity
that lead to self-obsession and greed and ignorance.

These tunnels are separated
by thin pieces of glass,
through which the world and others existing in it
can be easily observed and interacted with if we choose to.
For some reason, though, we don't.

We are hypnotized by the images of ourselves.
We are fascinated with the way we feel,
not paying mind to how others emote.

"Listen to learn and understand,
not just to respond."

Who do you call when you are having the having the most miserable day?
Who do you call when you just have something to say?
Who do you call when you're doing just okay?
Who do you call just to complain?
Who do you call when you think you're going insane?

Who always answers?

"I'm trying to find the perfect one," he says.

Well, I hate to break it to you, buddy, but you're blind.
You lost your sense of sight a long time ago.
You lost the ability to see the beautiful things of the world.
The true things.
The honest things.

The things that love your stupid jokes and the way you laugh at yourself for telling them.

The things that offer for you to lick the brownie batter even though it's her favorite.

The things that will watch those horribly childish shows you recommend because she knows it will make you happy.

Those things that listen to your complaints about being tired, even though she is exhausted herself, and helps you find a restaurant to get some dinner when you could easily ask Siri.

The thing that, unlike most genies, would let you wish for more wishes.

The thing that you're too blind to appreciate.

Who will you call now?

She falls
tumbling further into the pitch black abyss
grasping at words of twisted manipulation
disguised as sturdy branches
that could end her perpetual falling
if she would just grab onto them.
She envisions thick, reliable branches
of kind words and attention that
she could firmly hold
and plant her searching roots into.
One that would support
her dreams and
her home and
her love.
She hopes and wishes as
she is grasping at the black air.
But,
until then,
She falls.

Why were you smiling
as you turned
my blue sky
white cloud mind
into a thunderstorm?

Was it funny when you created dust
out of my porcelain love?

Did you enjoy
sprinting over the twigs
that were my bones,
crunching them into the open, dried out pinecones
that I opened for you?

Of course you were smiling.
I allowed it.
I relinquished my tight grip of the tattered ropes
that held you to me.
I let your untamed soul run free,
setting fires wherever you traveled.

I still love that smile.
That smile that pierces my zip-loc bag of a spirit
and lets the contents sprawl across the floor.
You won't pick up the mess.
That's okay.

I let you set fires that decimate entire cities
just so I can see that intoxicating smile.