I am more than the imperfections of my flesh.
More than an unorganized stack of papers riddled with typos.
More than a DVR for tragedy.
More than a play button for anxiety.

I am more the sum of all my parts.
More than the equations of my mind.
More than clicks on a keyboard.
More than words on a screen.

I am less than you.
Less than the seconds that you waste.
Less than the words that you are pantomiming.
Less than the poems that you've read.

But we are equals behind our eyes.

These catacombs of rumination,
these webs of paranoia.
Traverse this lair of irrationality,
where the light is without glow.

I've lent a hand to catastrophe.
I am not without fault.
Though, surely I do not deserve
a tomb buried in thought.

Rumination is my business.
Paranoia is my empire.

Built upon information.
An abundance of or lacking.

Just enough proof.
To know I that need more proof.

I am a weaver of words. Make no mistake I said words, not wisdom.
I am a coniessuer of simulies, and synonyms.
My shelves are lined with glass beakers and tubes containing syllables, but I am no alchemist.

Make no mistake, though, I am a poet.
I will reach for the sharpest edges of your mind, and whether I come home with lifelong scars or your lifelong adoration - I don't mind.

No, I don't behave like someone with something to say, I don't pry. I just sit and sift my words through mesh until only the most complex remain.
Because cliche is a killer, it won't impress.

How many others are out there right now with calices between their thumbs and index fingers speaking the same words I am?

If you feel like you have already heard this before, it's because you haven't. At the end of a stanza or the conclusion of a verse all of the colors start to fade. These pictures I have painted in your thoughts are temporary. Make no mistake, though, the feelings are endless.

Hey, you. Stop.
I know what you're seeking.
You look for a verse,
or stanza worth reading.

Look no further, peer inside.
Let me tell you how many times I've lied.
No? What? That won't do?
Don't tell me you're still not satisfied.

Oh, well. If that's the case.
Here's a few memories I'd gladly erase.
What's that you say? You've heard it before?
Well, what do you want? I have nothing more!

Do you want a pill that's hard to swallow?
An explanation as to why I'm hollow?
Do you need me to tell you how to feel?
Or are you simply craving something real?

Will you remember me when you're done reading?
Or are these words seen as fleeting?
Would it be different if there were a crowd,
While I stood onstage speaking out loud?

To be honest, it doesn't matter.
It's not my goal to convince or flatter.
This is my place, as it always has been.
So, close your eyes and listen to my pen.

Complicated words, drawn out phrasings.
Lines that flow like water and perfect pacing.
Truth from the heart, no more, no less.
Converted into art, forged without rest.

Your tongue is a hammer, nailing bars into place.
Ornate articulations to fill out all the space.
Between every line is a moment of awe.
Study it well and remember it all.

Maybe some day you'll take center stage.
You skipped the last step, so now you read off the page.
They applaud you in dim light, you make your exit.
Raise your head high, now you're in orbit.

A silk laden hand, shattered glass stained gold and autumn irises. Lunar surface, soft glow pale. Flesh made of ice, embers on your fingertips.

Cast iron tongue, lays foundations of truth. Floor is weak and leaning, droplets from small cracks. Nailing promises, rust and rust.

Still a heart in the home. Beats forevermore. Elements interceding, reclaiming with thorns. Home's heart a wall of vine, brush, and age.

An architect with no foresight. Tumbles down, wastes it all. An architect with no hindsight, put paper to pen and build it again.

Save the land, make your bed. Take it with you when you go.

Know me.
Know me by name, know my deed.
Know me by my prose, know me by my song.
Know me by these words, if you know me at all.
Know me by desire, my desire to be known.
Know that I don't seek fame, but only appreciation.

My focus expands
With the sorrows of those around me
And in their despair I discover
It is not only my eyes that see

Much more than poetry.
Evermore than words.
Prose that lines our DNA.
As it meets and intersects.

Time is fiddler.
We were born to dance.
Under the gleam of God and all.
Let them fathom true romance.

There is nothing like idle time
to atune the mind to the flesh.

There is nothing like silence
to hear your mortal breaths.

There is nothing like pondering
to feed the clock your thoughts.

Today I woke up to the sound of change.
A new life added to mine.
A heartbeat much like a war drum.
The rhythm is warm.
Its dance wild like fire.
It is the strongest reminder.
I have become a man.

His hearth beckons.
A grief for the thresholds of solitude.
Yearning of bare feet on familiar pine.

Home is where the heart is.

It lies in rest and wait.

If you tell me where it grows,

I'll take it to my grave.

When words are your outlet, where do you put them?

When words are what you believe in, how do you keep faith?

When words are your obsession, how do you keep a distance?

When words have betrayed you, how do you gain trust?

When words are all you have, what do you say back?

When words are your enemy, how do you come to peace?

When words are your sin, how do you atone?

When words are independant, how do you sieze control?

When words is your word of choice, how do you describe them?

Words are the blessing, and our greatest curse.

Words brought me here, with no map to guide me home.