Close your eyes.
Do you hear it?
The soft ticking in the background;
The sound of ink being punched onto parchment.

When you blow out your candles,
close your eyes,
and listen as the paper is reset.
Life is like a typewriter,
equipped with limited paper and red, Red ink ribbon.

Every action:
word, breath, kiss,
is stamped onto parchment.
Some people try to white it out,
forget it ever happened.
But turn the page over,
place it in front of the flame
and the red ink will be there,
a constant reminder.
Read what you’ve written,
be astonished by words,
and ashamed of phrases.
But accept the idea that it is the past, and cannot be undone.

Nothing is planned, for the parchment ahead is blank,
but this is not always a bad thing:
A blank page is like an open trail.
You’re free from restrictions and guidelines.

Will you sit with me,
close your eyes,
and listen for our typewriters?
One day,
when I re-read my story,
I hope you will always be in there,
somewhere close.

Have you ever
carried the world
and not known it?
Went on with your
life, without care?
Collecting stones,
shining pebbles,
weighing pearls.

When you can't feel the mountains protruding from your back,
The
waves
crashing behind
your eyes,
storms
                 brewing
                                    in your ears;
the devil in your head,
and the angel in your heart.

When you don't know
they're there, you grow
envious of
other people's
treasures. They lug
heavy buckets
of stones, pebbles,
and pearls while
it seems you own
a small pouch that
is worth nothing.

So you spend your days at the river,
collecting stones,
                 shining pebbles,
                              weighing pearls.
With some, they can see
                                          the storm coming;
                                                         ­                                               hear the thunder
before the lightning strikes.
With me,
it was
a pebble,
a shiny pebble that
                                                            ­                                                       jumped
from its bucket,
flew up: past the angel, devil, oceans, and storms, landed on the mountains and crushed
me
under its weight.
The mountains shook and
crumbled from the weight,
the
waves
crashing and
churning –
overflowing.
The storms
                       made me
                                                              ­                 deaf
but I can still hear
the devil screaming
and feel the angel dying.

I have no choice
but to proceed
to lug heavy
buckets of stones,
and of pebbles,
and of pearls
while the other
people go on
without a care;
with a small pouch
that is worth so
much – that I’d die
to hold again.

Poetry is fleeting.
It's like a drop of water on your dry tongue in the desert -
you don't know when it'll come again -
a scary feeling.
It's like a storm that passes over you, drenching you in rain -
but only for a brief moment -
and then it's gone.
It's like a passing subway train.
It's like a flash of lightning and
the only thing that you can remember is an echoing thunder where it once shone.
One moment it's there, singing songs and rhymes in your head.
And the next, it leaves you drained with only fragments.
You only have a few seconds.
By the time it's written, it's different, and can never be the same again.
It can never be that Angel's whisper,
but a true artist depends on how close you can get to that Angel.

We all travel paths, alone, until we are intersected.
Some paths are wide enough for several people to follow,
Others are a tightrope that you have to balance.
There are roads that loop in circles, never seeming to end,
But a number of trails do not divulge from forward.
And every time a path is crossed, you meet someone new.
And, like every thing, you have a choice.

It's customary to give a piece of yourself away.
It's just a small piece, a very very small cut from your cake,
What difference will it make?
So what if all you say is:
"I love you."
Or you even give away a kiss, or something greater?
What difference will it make?

Every time you give a piece away,
That's a little less of you left for someone more important.
(That's the difference it makes.)
Someone more important than that ex-boyfriend or lost friend,
Or maybe not? Their importance in your life is up to you.
That makes this your choice.
It's up to you whether they are worthy.
This is your soul you're giving away.

Your path will continue, even if they don't choose to follow.
It goes on, sunrise to set, and throughout the night.
Mornings with cotton candy skies, and avian lullabies.
Evenings with fire clouds.
Nights with diamonds.
Don't give yourself all away at once: you'll never see what comes next.
Your path will continue, continue to be interrupted by people.
Good people with good intentions;
Devils with Angelic facades.
How much you give them is up to you,
This is your path, and your choice.