Stacking a thousand ladders over one another and piling dozens of chairs
You still cant touch the moon
You can only dream under it
But the view from up here is closer than before and farther from the ground
The air is colder up here
And you feel more free
And you are legitimately over those who walk
And you realize that the only reason you feel free is because you feel you have the choice.
The choice
To let go of these railings
And the realization that you are in control of your life
That nothing's holding you down there
That nothing's holding you up here
But the will to hold on to life
Or to let
Go

The first thinkers were poets
Naming Mother Earth
Beginning symbolic thinking
Of nature, death and birth

Though themes are often repeated
Love, Beauty and God
Poetry in the guise of Religion
A prophet or a fraud

The poet resurrects the Primitive
Through allegory and similes
Disarming the unknown like explorers
Sublime Prophets and Visionaries

They must lay bare those treasured images
That must be expressed
Unraveling and revealing the sounds
At each soul’s behest

Encompassing the entire Cosmos
So lyrical the beat
The poet’s excitement flows outward
Laid at the Reader’s feet

So original, individual
She won’t examine or explain
Letting go the festering feelings
Disturbances in her brain

He exposes his dark, wounded psyche
Just to release and express
Such capacity to see and compare
Hyperbole at its best

I love, I hate, I suffer
A special dance in rhythm and rhyme
The poet as a buffer
Lessening the pain and sting of time

Laden with symbol and feelings
She gives you sweet relief
From something urgent, revealing
Confusion to belief

Through a cinematic kind of seeing
The poet purges to transform
By leaping through Alice’s looking glass
She never was one to conform

Quite intolerant of convention
Just like The Mad Hatter
His passions immune to all logic
In syncopated patter

Jamming up the poet’s mind
Struggling for expression
Seeking order out of chaos
An infantile regression

Cleaving to his imaginary world
The poet breaks out into words
Creating sound paintings to be unfurled
So his own agony is blurred

She succumbs to storms of passion
With instinctive techniques
Rhymes and rhythm still in fashion
Out of hand flows mystique

The poet mines from his unconscious
The Reader is not blind
For every single line and symbol
Means something to the mind

Causing an inner liberation
Enlightenment or flight
It is a matter of life and death
When darkness turns to light.

Sometimes, I swear I can feel my chest concaving at the thought of you.
I find interest in the fact that sometimes I want to be near you, but sometimes,  I wish you were an ocean away.

Sometimes I look at my mother,  and pray I'm not like her, but other times,  I wish I could be more like her because that would make my life so much easier.

Sometimes, I cry alone at night.
I sit unaccompanied and begin to gorge myself on memories and guilt that I am certain will forever haunt me.
And during the day.
I think about how many more days I must suffer before I can be me freely.

Sometimes, I wish I was as much of a physical man as my brother is.  
Because sometimes,  like when we have a relatives birthday, or a celebration, he is glorified for his ability to be ox-like.
And while I sit here only weighing 130 pounds and having the strength of a rubber chicken I feel as though every bit of breath I breathe is not with the carbon my lungs put out.

Sometimes I think about you.
And how you're with him.  
And it makes me sick.
Because sometimes. . .
I wish sometimes didn't exist