How can somebody be as beautiful as the poems they write?
I have no idea, but **** you do it well.

this is not a ten stepper essay.  You are, and you admit it, full stop. Addicted to HP.  No help here.

but to answer the question...

the writing of a poem,
no matter what your style,
eye dropper word selection,
slow methodical,
or furious expelling, frying oil
until crescendo is achieved
is clearly a fulfillment of
a ****** type of need.

Afterwards,
after words,
when you repeatedly
check the number of likes,
it is just you asking me

was it as good for you
as it was for me?

Usually, eventually,
the answer is a
quiet, soft spoken,
very few reads version of:

"Uh, just let me sleep"
which means you will try again
in the the morning suncomeforth.

Fields turn to concrete turns to buildings turn to cities turn to dust. Everything in this world is finite. **** or be killed. We are malignant cells multiplying and dividing, incurable, unstoppable. Where we go, death and destruction follow. They're right behind us, pushing to get ahead.

All we touch turns to stone, a grave marker for the earth. We are burying ourselves with it. Ashes and bones are the thrones of the new world. We don't learn from our mistakes, we build upon them.

There is a thirst that cannot be quenched, a hunger that cannot be satisfied. We devour everything in sight, but remain empty. If this is what it means to be human, I'd rather be the mud stuck on the bottom of a shoe, the trash blowing away with the wind, the roadkill abandoned on the side of a highway.

Is your mind's Identity, a compilation of events that you have witnessed, through your senses, thoughts actions, and uttered sentences have set themselves on a set of shelves in your mental book case. But so many names to face there's not enough space to keep it all straight, so it escapes. My past it fades and gaps make way to take its place, and now my story looses some glory. Things I have done, lessons learned from someone will help me none if I can remember them poorly. I am hardly an entity with any identity if my foundation of memories decays from under me exponentially.

So see me again, some other time when I'm on your mind, and you ought to find then that I'm a new man with new opinions. So then you'll bend, changing the image of me in your head. It's good to see you again Old Friend. You say and exchange the same handshake as when we were both young sit back and pretend, reminisce about days together we'd spend. You've still got some vivid depictions to lend to this old man who's past escapes him.

And that's why brother its good to have each other, a constant in my life, a bond easily recovered. And that's why this better last forever. No matter how we drift, spirits stay tethered together. Cause at the end of one's life we've got two things left. Our memories, and our old friends to share them with.