I don't sail,
It's not that I don't know how,
or that I don't want to.
I just don't.

I've been out,
quite a few times actually,
and I liked it.
I even make money repairing boats,
but for some reason,
it just doesn't draw me
like it does others.

It could be a product of my character,
I may leave it be because it lacks structure
but it exudes finesse.
And I'm the bull in the china shop
who then feels the need to clean up his mess.

Am I missing out on something?
It seems like everyone around me lives for it,
they were born into it though.
I grew up in the woods,
in the peaceful ambiance
and the warm tents bathed in sunlight.

I can take a pack,
a water bottle,
a camera
and return to my childhood.

The trees were my water,
and the chickadees and woodpeckers my fish.
The sun is the same,
bathing the trees and the sea.

That,
that is me.
I do not live in the ocean or on the sea,
I tread among the emerald trees.

A quick goodnight to you,
beautifully sullied world.
I dream of dancing upon your darkest streets,
and watching the brilliantly hazy sunrise.
An orb glittering with ****,
like thousands of luminescent little diamonds.
I go to bed thinking,
I will die one day,
and so will you.
My life,
it's a short and thankless mess compared to yours.
Thousands of years of effortless toil,
speeding sluggishly around a gaseous gem.
I can't wait to see how we waste tomorrow together.

Well ****,
I've been so disconnected from them lately,
from those I call my friends.
"I've been working" I say,
but there's something more.
I know I was **** at it,
but I think I'm better than before.
I can have fun without them,
but without them,
that fun doesn't last forever more.
The memories fade,
the faces are gone.
The songs aren't as loud,
And I can't quite envision it,
the heaving and swirling crowd.
I realize,
that when they are there
things mean more,
and memories
hold a candle's luminous,
flickering glare
in my dark head.

It was back today,
that prickling scent of ozone,
that foggy sensation
slowing my thoughts
and adding dead-weight to my head.
I'm not losing grip again,
no,
I'm just viewing the world.
It seems like every time
I sweep my gaze
across an object or face
it's wearing a mask I've never before seen.
This feeling's not new,
in fact it's an old friend.
I beg it to return,
to help me see this peaceful world again.
Everything crystalline and perfect,
it's a new understanding
hidden beyond confoundment.
I fear it,
because I recognize only that which I have viewed before,
but I always wish that it had lasted just an hour more.
A flower now seems wilted,
while another blooms.
The one constant,
it's always you.

So now you see why it is
that our world comes crumbling down around us
in a painfully iridescent sea of washed color.
Tiny shards biting at at every exposed inch,
destroying the glimmering shield
of an emboldened psyche.
Cruelly,
it continues on
and spitefully burns
the chapel we have built about us.
These falling stones
cannot be stopped.
The keep tumbling aimlessly
through a long and burning life,
terrified of a frigid and abrupt end.
Doesn't that remind you of something?

Sometimes it smells like burnt ozone,
wafting through my nostrils
like tendrils of smoke.
I have no clue why,
but it does.
It invites me to come out and play,
to look at the crystallized world as I never before have.
I call them my moments of beauty,
when it all  falls into place.
I can see a new side to everything,
find meaning in anything.
Everything seems so clear and perfect,
as if it belongs.
I,
however,
feel like a stranger there.
Those moments alienate,
and I do all that I can to grasp them.
I can't though,
and that's why I take my camera.
If only,
a camera could see the world the way I do,
could think,
could write down it's thoughts,
and live life like we humans.
For each of us,
in our own right,
is a misunderstood
and supremely confused
god.

I drag it in,
gasping and wheezing.
Yet as soon as I feel a little better,
It's gone.
You take it away,
but I blink.
Realize you aren't there,
never were.
You were a dream,
the creation of a weary and oxygen deprived mind.
My pitiful sounds created a song,
a song that reached out to the world.
I had created an ode to you,
but you never heard it.
You never saw me sink down
onto my battered knees
as I slowly lost it all.
Slowly,
ever so slowly,
the world went dark.
And with it flew all the hopes within my tired heart.
You were blind and deaf to it,
because this suffering never did start
in front of you.
It never really left my own mind.
It was a part of me too,
much like the liver or my slowly beating heart.
But each time I see you,
it all begins,
and it never seems to truly end.
I can't help,
and neither could you.
It's my emotions doing their part,
and playing their games.
It's just that you take my breath away.