I woke up,
from a dream,
rooms was cold,
and serene,
hands were numb,
eyes were young,
opened the shades,
let in the sun.

Walked outside,
looked around,
took in all,
the sights and sounds.
Man, am I,
happy to be alive,
sun shining bright,
my life has just begun.

And so I ran,
into the fields,
and I let,
my wounds heal.
An open space,
the feeling of grace,
as the wind,
brushed my face.

The world was wide,
the world was small,
before my eyes,
I saw it all.
I felt love,
and felt bold,
till one day,
I grew old.

My skin shriveled up,
and my heart,
weakly puffed,
and I stop to sit down,
and I felt,
the sights and sounds.

And then I lied down in bed,
and I rested,
my buzzing head,
and I closed my weary eyes,
and I slowly,
faded into time.

I lick the tip of my paintbrush and dip it into the black
I line and curl the tips of my eyeliner with a flourish.

Mismatched.

Art.

And my eyes have forgotten how to read with avarice.
And my lungs have forgotten how to breathe in smoke.
And my lips have forgotten how to form good lies.
And my fingers have forgotten how to wield a brush.

And I try. And I try. And I try to remember.

And it is not easy to remember every step and so many others are better.

I am weaker.

What happened to me?
I don't remember.

I did it.
Last night was the night.
I kissed another girl, I danced all night long.
I left her behind for good.
But now I realize,
too late, that I can miss.
That feeling of home, holding her hands,
The ease with which it all came.

But maybe I can save it,
I just wont tell her
and everything will be okay
and things will go back
to just the way they were.
But they can't, can they?
Not the sanctity of dogmatism.
Not the passion of fidelity.
Not the ease of honesty.
Nothing will erase the burning of these foreign lips on sacred ground

Do you know what beauty is?

Some say it's these eyes.
The same eyes that have been rubbed with fists
that don't know their purpose,
fists that only know these tears are foreign,
and it is their job to eradicate them.
These eyes are two-sided mirrors,
only showing what the outer person believes to see,
not what's really there.
These eyes have known smiles, but not sleep;
joy, but not peace.
Are these eyes still beautiful?

Some say it's this smile.
The same smile that has been too many frowns,
curves of confusion and wishful thinking.
These teeth, straight and strong
only because of man's work, not nature's.
Teeth that were once blamed for unattractiveness,
and kept hidden by tight-lipped
excuses of a smile.
Lips that are anxiously bit rather than kissed,
red with embarrassment and the feeling
of never measuring up.
Together, these lips and teeth create a smile,
but alone they are just forcefully arranged teeth,
and lips that worry.
Is this smile still beautiful?

Some say it's these curls.
The curls that are, but don't want to be,
and only are because hormones got a hold of them.
These curls are soft, but disguised of that
by flyaway frizz that wants freedom
but will never get it.
These curls are angry at their boundaries,
and they take that anger out on me.
The truth is, I could never set them as free
as they wish to be.
Are these curls still beautiful?

Some say it's this size.
The petite waist and slender arms,
the curvy legs and prominent chest,
this childish height.
Smallness makes the big feel bigger,
stronger, more capable.
But it also makes the small feel smaller.
This is the same waist that hungers perpetually,
the same arms that shiver when no one else does,
the curves that hesitate instead of bragging,
and the height that's mocked, condescended,
and shamefully despised.
Is this size still beautiful?

The heart of the matter is that beauty
is simply misunderstood.
Beauty is the surface of unfathomable depths.
It is not beauty at all, but merely
an acceptance, or a recovery, or a new birth.
Something that was,
but wasn't until it was discovered.
And if this is the case, why aren't we searching for it?
Why are we waiting for beauty to appear
when we could be finding it?

Continuing to live - that is, repeat
A habit formed to get necessaries -
Is nearly always losing, or going without.
It varies.

This loss of interest, hair, and enterprise -
Ah, if the game were poker, yes,
You might discard them, draw a full house!
But it's chess.

And once you have walked the length of your mind, what
You command is clear as a lading-list.
Anything else must not, for you, be thought
To exist.

And what's the profit? Only that, in time,
We half-identify the blind impress
All our behavings bear, may trace it home.
But to confess,

On that green evening when our death begins,
Just what it was, is hardly satisfying,
Since it applied only to one man once,
And that one dying.

Stranger, I'm sorry.
I haven't met
You yet,
but when I do,
I'm afraid that all I'll feel
is warm limbs
and dusted lips.

Again, I'm sorry,
but not wholeheartedly.
Too much at stake.
I've too much time
that cannot be spared.
And these flames,
they won't dissipate.

I can't have it happen
because when it does
these feet will be doused
and my heart will explode
from not running about.

You'll become them,
my passions,
and, needless to say,
they're jealous of me.
They cannot share.
I am so loved.
I am so loved.

I'll shut it out,
You, for now, because
I'm afraid it may come too soon.
I pray you know that
I can't amble yet.
I've still too much to do.