Nightmares haunt my ever waking.
Never giving. Always taking.
Always giving without volition,
or is it a seer’s gift with condition?
Both contend. Neither understood.
Whether ‘tis those to bleed
or others bled?
It remains.
In consciousness I presume Logic’s domain,
But in dreams I occupy and Escher’s fantasy.
One way out is another door in.
Oh how this dream ceases an end!
Awakening is not an escape, but a taunting of the perishing day.
It remains.

A million friendships I have been apart
Only two are memorable


The first is grounded
This friendship is a thorn in my side, a lash on my back
It is a disappointing look when I am not myself
A scorn when I fail to try
And a reminder that there is always another chance


The other is flamboyant
I am the wildest of creatures and oddest of sights
Forced out of comfort
Boastful, and zany
Never passing an opportunity to flaunt


Value is not placed on the friendship
but rather the lessons -

I have gained immeasurable wisdom
I will never back down, but I shall hold my tongue
Try my best, without overkill
Strive for Independence, and ask for help
Discovering the beauty in exploration and intellectualism
And most of all:

Appreciating each character of life in a relationship, friendship, and bond.

Love is a stone

it holds value
it is found in all sorts of form and expanse
it builds up mountains -a foundation, if you will-
and carves a special place of its own.
it is unique in color, frequency, rarity, and boundary
it can be carried forever or can be lost and found again.
Maybe not by the original passerby
but by someone, sometime, somewhere, somehow

yet love is a stone
it can be missed, overlooked, misleading
it is used for weaponry against the ***** from which it was formed
thrown with all its might
cast deep below conscious water
it can turn out to be a fools gem
a dull rock that was once seemed so beautiful in the eyes of the blind
the eyes that saw all the glory of the world
Now gaining sight it sees nothing and wishes to be blinded again

Love is fickle
Love is indomitable
Love is a grain, a stone, a boulder, a mountain, a whole world
Love is exactly what it is, love..

I gaze into transparency
and behold is me
from which I cannot turn

In my palm I hold
-temptation-
bestowed to me at birth

I cannot open my hand to let it free
I grasp the imitator that is me

Someone push on the tendon
to release my grasp
or must I suffer to the bottom
my hand then dwell with me

Please take my hand-
make it white by red
Then I shall hold it
only to blacken it again

Who can charm
he who turns the sands of time...
has no bound.
For the trickle of water
that soon runs dry
will cease and take a winters chill.
In that,
the ones who are the lucky stump,
keeps the aging trail.
As others swept by seasons' lust-
are but leaves in Harvest air.
You stampede on the thin hair
where others break and hang.
May you savor young and dreaming,
but never grasp the prize
of those who risk at teachers cost
and pass to take on whats after.