I write, because the things I wish to say come out a lot better when I put pen to paper then when I try to make those same words come out of my mouth.

-m.n.

Words are just words.
Though they move with a flow
to match the rivers of my soul.

Though they bend like my bow.
Though they showcase it all:
The love. The hurt.
They're just words.

Though they sing like my strings,
though they can be sung; they sing
hollow;

My strings and my bow
prove to me words are words.
Why then, do these phrases
showcase my soul?

My violin is my muse,
and I know it seems obtuse
to say that words are just words.
But I wish I could play for you all.

Then you'd see my soul
in crescendo...
                     Not simply this piece of the whole.

There are 10 kinds of people in this world,
and binary accounts for them all.

They're happy and sad.
They're ones and zeros.
Villains and heroes.
Villains, yet not all bad.
Despite everything life decides to hurl;
Despite every brick ball of fear
Through the stained glass windows of their minds,
Through it all, they survive.
They're angry and glad.
They're happy and sad.

And in their duality, they're still smiling there
at your sharp hasty words
at your venomous hurt
that you wish so desperately they, too, shared.

I've seen a better part
Of overwhelming emotion
It's strange
An ebb and flow
Of apathy and actually
Living
Feeling an emotion
Feeling a feeling
Feel
When your body
Is alive
And your mind is trying
To let it slide
Behind
I am fine
I am
Life is beautiful

I was fixated on his eyes
Why?
Because they painted me a picture