Your smile confuses me in more way than one,
your smile is warm and yet disconnected,
despondent and infectious all at once,
a contradiction well hidden,
from the view of many,
yet cracks show,
temporary.

Time,
the cure,
mending it all
your facade is strong,
convincing even family,
but eventually all wells run dry,
and on that day I'll see your true smile.

The sands of time,
far more numerous than the sea,
outweigh the odds,
cast back the fleeting,
see things as they are,
the truth of all things.

If time is a cage,
then truth is the key,
and if what you need is change,
then release the safety,
and break the bulwark,
the safety you've always known.

The grass is always greener,
things are always better from the outside looking in,
always better from far away,
good things do not come to those that wait,
they are snatched by those willing to reach.

In time all will come to know the sting of sadness,
the ache of regret swelling in their veins,
but know this,
time heals all wounds,
and death is not the refuge you seek,
fear is for the weak and stupid,
the reaper comes to collect,
not to free.

Don't fight the flow of time,
accept its crushing embrace,
forge from the fires someone you respect,
a persona worthy of your love,
and cease murmuring of what you hang on your cross.

Never take it sitting down,
fight fire with fire,
strike down conspiring fates,
be your own person,
never heeding popular demand.

You are who you choose to be,
tendencies may exist,
but raise your fist instead,
there is you and there is your shadow,
choose the better of the two.

Slice it down the center,
tear apart all conventions that misrepresent,
seek only truth,
don't change for anyone,
change only for your own sake,
fight for what you believe,
that's the only advice I can give you.

They live among us.

Who am I?

We see them every day,
we cannot know.

Why me?

Working day to day,
the dead walking,
leaving invisible trails of blood in their wake.

I deserved it.

Dreams filled with running,
monsters hiding in plain sight,
burnt out shells,
devoid of human light.

Why do I even care?

Nights spent alone,
sleep cannot take it away,
no safety found in their homes,
smoldering ash,
where human beings used to be.

Maybe if I...

All avenues cut off,
seething pain turned to numbness,
the burden of the day,
phantom wounds cut to the quick,
by the time we're aware,
it's far too late.

Why am I so unworthy?

This story is as old as time itself,
speak the word,
tell this story to the forty-four percent who are still children,
they're young,
they'll get over it,
tell it to the eighty percent under thirty,
it builds character,
tell it to the walking dead born every two minutes,
it's not my problem.

When did God stop caring?

The law,
all encompassing,
all knowing,
all powerful,
what a joke,
indifferent,
indecisive,
imperfect science.

When did home become a prison?

Tell this story to the law,
tell it to the judge,
tell it to the predator,
tell it to the sixty percent that go unreported,
tell it to the ninety-seven percent that will never see the bars that bind,
tell it to the two-thirds who knew their reaper,
tell it to the thirty-eight percent who stared into the face of familiarity,
the abysmal side of human nature.

*Tell this story to the one-fifth of women in this country,
who fall prey to twisted shadows,
the hearts of man,
tell them that they are worthy

People come and go,
women especially,
but if you're lucky someday you'll met her,
the girl that rips your life in two,
into the time before you met her,
and the time after.

I always thought that I was immune,
impervious to that sickness known as love,
a childhood condition,
a fictitious construction,
but things don't always go your way.

We speak of love in varying degrees,
hushed tones or from the rooftop,
we often speak of fate and destiny,
soul-mates,
but if I've learned anything from life,
it's that love in this context is common.

A common love,
a common interest,
fear of dying alone,
no,
anything done out of fear isn't worth my breath,
and real love isn't born out of mutual admiration,
it isn't a byproduct of infatuation,
born of the imaginings of the human mind.

Love is often one sided,
often unexpected,
and always messy,
it takes work and conviction,
more stamina than I can muster,
more depth of field than a single lens.

Love is working until the day you die,
love is raising children,
holding their hand as they take their first steps,
love is enduring until the end,
the end that will come,
holding her as her body succumbs to disease,
choking back tears as you taste the fear in her eyes,
and following her down the rabbit hole,
the light at the end of the tunnel,
death only a beginning.

Love is an aching pain in the pit of your chest,
love is a struggle,
fighting claw and tooth for some peace of mind,
love is dramatic,
love is stupid,
love is overwrought,
love is an unspoken oath,
love is a trust hard earned,
not easily broken,
a chain tied around your throat,
reminding you to keep your composure,
and keep her close.

Love exists not for you,
it exists for her,
a bond built between two,
and the children that will someday come,
unborn promises,
aloft on gilded wing,
sail set ablaze by the human heart.

I love you girl,
the way you smile,
reflection of the sun in your eye,
the way you cry at every curve in the path,
the way you fall in and out of love at the drop of a feather,
the way you bear self inflicted scars,
the way you can't make sense of the thunderclouds in your head,
your fear of turbulent weather,
the way your body language betrays you,
a thin veneer of sunshine,
I love that you aren't perfect,
I love that we met as children,
understanding in our adolescence,
and looking forward as adults.

**** it!

I love you girl,
I love you as my best friend,
the shell of my shyness torn asunder,
I love you as a sister,
ever present,
I love you as a symbol of brighter days,
filling me with nostalgia,
I love you as a lover,
a beauty best appreciated under setting sun,
I love you as an idealistic fool,
weeping for the futility of it all,
I love you as a fellow dreamer,
believing that one day,
and perhaps given a bit of luck,
I'll love you as a wife,
forever my partner in crime.

The soul of an angel,
and the heart of a saint,
recipient of my fear,
admiration,
and hope for the future.

Hell is a place I will not go,
if only for a friend,
the friend I've found in you.

"Destiny is the bridge you build,
to the one you love."

I am young,
though I wish I were younger,
I would rewind time if I could,
back to a period where my temperament was stronger,
back to a time when my greatest concern was a Popsicle,
dripping on my hand as I lick it.

Youth is resilient,
we are born into ignorance,
where we might or might not remain,
given to bliss and innocence,
a greater inclination for love.

I long for a time filled with freedom,
freedom found within playground fences,
found within crosswalks and spineless volumes,
crayon on wall not pen on paper,
that's where real art is made.

I long for a time filled with big brothers and big sisters,
learning one step at a time,
no quantitative measures of success in life,
a time with unrealistic expectations,
not expectations unfulfilled.

I long for the time when I worshiped the ground my brother walked on,
infallible parents and clergymen,
where forgiveness goes without saying,
forgetting trespasses just as quickly as they come,
things change as we are carried away.

It's true that I still love,
but things are different now,
it'll never be the same,
my love is transfigured by dividing lines,
not open to the general populous,
dependent on what they do or say.

I wish that I could go back.

What is the dream,
the diary I keep with notes etched to the seam?
What is the goal,
the endpoint at which I determine my role?
The world only skims off the top it seems,
loving only the cream of the crop.

Lost am I,
having strayed from the path,
a world split down the middle,
cut and dry,
and if so,
where can I live,
who can abide my wayward soul?
A soul assembled from the ashes of Descartes and Kant,
a contradiction in continuity,
can I or can't I,
change the hand that I've got?

Listen to the song,
the siren's polyphony,
the refrain rate familiar,
the color tone wrong,
discern for yourself,
what is the bane of the crown?
Stifle your fear and strike at the root,
with shovel in hand bury your sin,
always striving for truth,
rend the tree at both ends.

Yes,
I am a pariah,
***** in purpose and soul,
the wayfarer's failure,
refusing to pay the pathfinder's toll,
and although my map is imperfect,
all roads lead to Rome.

Retreatist,
rebel,
jester,
fool,
gladly I'll claim the whole lot,
each title a badge,
a step towards my goal,
this society is sick and refuses to see,
each individual is a person,
gay,
gypsy,
Muslim,
Jew.

In a world far removed from our own,
there lies a young girl,
days spent in a small house,
days spent in solitude.
A small house on a hill,
countryside as far as the eye can see,
warm weather,
alone and safe isn't exactly a perfect forever.
To stay forever in that little country cottage,
a dream come true,
grass so green,
and sky so blue.
One day she stood up and walked out,
never having left the warmth of the field,
she was lost,
she was sick of complacency,
whatever the cost.
She just kept walking,
losing sight of the familiar,
gaining vision as walked,
a new skyline.
Walking farther and farther.
the atmosphere changed,
warmth shed away into cold,
snow began to fall as she walked,
beneath her summer dress her skin began to bleed.
Snow on snowflakes,
frostbitten extremities,
and still she walks on,
thinking of how things ought to be.
When the young girl met wits end,
physical form begun to warp,
she came walking around the end of the bend,
a structure in sight.
Through enclosed walls,
to the open gate,
eyes agape,
a busy stream of people on their way.
A sight unfamiliar,
a song and a hum,
the journey worthwhile,
the solitude a sojourn.