The Irish word for poet
is "File".
This always fascinates me
Because it reminds me of a youthful horse
(The filly)
Pushing the boundaries
And stumbling on awkward legs
Being
not the most majestic
But the one who discovers
Joy and passion
and vibrancy
in every action of life.

When just putting
one foot in front of the other(s)
is a deed as majestic
As galloping
Like a knight with surmounting pride
Or a night with no end,
It's indeed a gift
of youth and innocence.

Like the old mare,
We may bear wrinkles.
Like the war horse,
We have our battle scars.

But we are the “File”.
And we have something to say.

and we will forever be
infinite
in our hoof beats
and our heart beats.

Should you ever wear colongne
For someone else
Because you are in love
Please leave me -

I don't mean to be dramatic
But I truly want, for us, happiness.
I will let you go, guilt free
As I and others have been let go before.

Should you have purely desire,
Please know the distinction.
And if we suffer together,
We will indeed have failed.

Pessimism is not what I intend,
I prefer realism in this life
[though as a romantic, that is hard]
Hopefully we will share this ideal.

If love can last forever, I hope that we will have it
If we do not, I will not hate you
Or whoever has stolen your heart
For what we will have built will be enough
Or it will not.

If the world caught fire tomorrow leaving we two the only survivors,
I think that things could be alright, because I think that you and I could 
Sift through the ashes, make morbid jokes and talk about the rain 
and the things that we missed and the things we did not and thing things we wished hadn't changed. 
And if, when the flames subsided our living hell were to freeze over,
you and I could keep each other warm, sleeping close, each other's cover. 

Because you are all I need in the world.  It is that simple.

Darling, if only you would pour your heavy heart into my hands 
I'd let the coals slip through my fingers until gold was all we had. 
If you and I were the last on earth, well, that would be alright,
Because no one else has ever loved me, ever proved that they would fight
For me the way that you did the night I dove into the sea
and you braved the waves and rising tides and swam out after me. 
I don't know what I was looking for, out there in the ocean.
Maybe it was a trick of the moon, a spell cast from perfection.
I was convinced that once I'd hit the bottom, I'd never again look the direction
of the surface.
But. You reminded me to come up for air.

I have everything I need in you. My terra firma, my everything. And I promise, on my love for you, I won't go back out to sea.

It's been said that happiness is just a chemical equation,
so if Socrates says it's it golden, are you calling his assertions fallacious?
Our youth has let adulthood clip our wings and force us into burning light
from the sheltered, softened world where our innocence used to hide.
Age brings darkness. It sneaks in slowly, stealing bliss, sinister serpent,
we let him replace our carelessness with solemn seriousness and self-observance.
Sunshine became an energy source, a burning star, and nothing more.
The tides, the mountains, the freckles on your chest hold no mysteries anymore,
because we know what they are. We're smart - we finally know better.
We have broken beauty and enchantment into particles of matter.

We're much too old and smart now to fall for nature's silly tricks.
For each secret hidden deep in the world, we build a tool to **** it with.

We've explained away the smiles and laughter
and we've beaten meaning out of every chapter
of every book that ever made us wonder.
We murdered innocence, a sordid blunder.
Because we have to know. We crave a meaning, a purpose, something solid,
and so for centuries we've dug our way down, and soon we'll reach the bottom.
I mean, do you really want to hear that everything is nothing?
What will you gain when you demand that nature stops her bluffing
and see the clearest truth about existence as we know it?
When you've solved the final mystery, what will you have to show for it?
We, the clumsy people, are emptying the world of all its luster.
We have polished and picked at our precious, gleaming life until it rusted.
We, in our greed and hunger,
have spoiled the secrets of the wonder
we were trusted with, whether by divinity or blind ******* luck.
We behold beauty, bursting forth with bold abandon, but only question it's chemical makeup.

The loneliness gets to me every once and a while. I actually do fine without anyone, but of course taking the time to think about it changes everything, scrolling through my dash on Tumblr, or just feeling the floating aura that radiates off of someone who’s in love…makes you feel the empty pit right below your sternum. And you wonder what it’s like to feel butterflies there…true butterflies. For me, they’d be pterodactyls; I don’t know what it’s like to truly feel for someone on that level and for the feeling to be returned in the same magnitude. This makes me wonder how people rush things. A touch should be cherished, and one should pull every bit of tingle from it that they can before he/she takes her hands away. I long for that, but I've done a fantastic job at convincing myself that I don’t. I can’t see myself being loved that way, so much that he would slow down, be serene and stoic with me, share all his thoughts and vibrations, and not be a total **** that falls into the stereotype of an attractive guy who can’t keep up a conversation. I feel no attachments to the people I've dated. None. Their faces and voices do not phase me like I once pretended they did. I’m drawn in by their ability to intrigue me and stimulate my mind, and then they stop doing it because they don’t understand how it satisfies me.