Life is multicolored leaves,
growing and leaving
season after season,
colors changing
falling in a breeze
then disintegrating,
before their siblings
start growing in their place.

It is a single child’s
growing smile
as laughter forms,
happiness before
she has learned
of the horrors of war.

It is nature’s dance,
as time makes us move,
as the wind plays through
vibrating, and moving,
taking light leaves
and turning these
tree things into
tiny ballerinas.

Life is self-reflected
to be inspected
and see all things
changing.
It is the mirror of ages
blank white pages
slowly writing themselves,
to be eventually forgotten.

It is deliciously beautiful
and frankly quite rotten,
a matter of perspective
and all humans got one.

I think its great fun
to try and define
what life is,
but I know it is
beyond this poem.

I watched her pick
particular flowers,
not the prickly thorned type
but the purple poesies
of innocent delight.

I adored her visage
whilst making petal plucking wishes
“of she loves me,
or “she loves me not.”

I watched her go
and all that I got
was the sweet afterglow
of a beautiful show.

Everyone’s a poet in their own fluid motions.
Everyone’s a planet with their own private oceans,
deep saltwater life, underwater caverns that take us to
unknown depth that we need an open mind to view.
Everyone’s a fish just swimming in the sea
floating, falling, rising, uncertain who they should be.

Bad morning,

I say that it’s okay
to bare all the pain
grievously.

The sun is not
shining brightly
but smites me,
with harsh rays.

Dull day,

I sour and curdle
fall over the hurdles
I was trying to bound.

Dark present,

dreary moment,
I should own it
but my disposition
makes me hate
all the things
I once thought were great;

Except for the nighttime,

a sweet release,
as I go to sleep,
and don’t have to think,
until tomorrow
when I awaken refreshed,
with more optimistic words.

They are living, thriving
beautiful social beings,
out dining, and partying

while I am surviving
in solitary,
pondering,
reality,
observing
the wonderfully perturbing
to the dark and disturbing.

They are full throttle,
heavy metal,
foot to the pedal,

while I am indulging
my quiet disposition
a perfect position
to sit and question
what most take for granted.

They are spectacular,
each one raging with
a deep intensity
that I really dig,

and I just want to be
left alone to ponder
all of it.

To write starlight sparkles
of glimmering wonder
that shine in your eyes,
and reflect
the natural wonders
you love and respect,

or a smile that is as warm as
a bright summers day
with full flowing lips that open to say
kind, wise, and inspiring words
bringing blooms of joy
to all the lives you grace
with your energetic pace;

I know every human body makes poetry,
but somebodies speak clearer,
break through the deep blue hued
crystals made to confuse
all that humans once knew
straight to the inner light of you.

If ever you forget,
I will be incline to
remind you,
you are a poem of flesh
carved and molded
by space and time.

In a world void of
myths and legends
you are a nature goddess.

Please, don’t be modest
cause you are a bad ***
beyond measure.

The screen reflects
an artistic perfectness
she tries to imbue
life with.

Words
whipped
from her wit
through
her swift
fingertips.

Dangerous
and lovely ideas
sparkle like
her best friend’s
very nice
glittered up nails,
and are
twice as sharp.

Each line laced
with youthful vigor,
such an energetic
expenditure,
and are flavored by
an ancient poet’s
wise old eyes.

All written
for herself
not made to share
with anyone else,

but I got a look
into the treasure chest
of her artistic mind,
and the jewels
you will find
if she is ever inclined
will blind you
with their glorious shine.

What are we
but the dirt
that was once
stars we
no longer
get to see,

the water
that once
was sea
plus or minus
parts ***
passing through
everything
in human history.

What are we
but the convergence
of what ifs,
what was,
what wasn’t,
what is,
and what will
never get to be.

What are we
but strange dreams
made in
waking moments,
passing pleasantries
fading in
eternity
and infinity.

That light enters
through my window
and lets me see
little floating particles
that seem to flicker
in and out of existence
like tiny twinkling stars.

Oh, witchy woman,
does old love
still
speak spells
of sorrow
into your being?

Does that
little rat familiar
still twitch
and occasionally
pull tiny droplets
of blood from
your veins?

Has time dulled
your self-hurting
ways,
or do you still
enjoy the thrill
of a little
***** pain?

It has been years,
and I know I am
much different
so, I wonder
have you also changed?

It’s a wonderful dream,
two hearts following
similar paths
to our last gasp.

Sharing stories
caring for these
final moments.

Holding hands
on unplanned
walks across
untainted lands;

Conversations,
that create
new nations
and other
undiscovered
countries
of our minds,

silent smiles
that speak
more poetically
than any verse
created by me.

Till, my tired body
goes to sleep
eternally,
and soon after
my sweet lover
follows.

It’s shift change,
and pit stains
paint my blue shirt.

My feet hurt,
and I’m ready to leave work,
but the teenage party ****
doesn’t come in,
so of course I
am not leaving,
just grieving
my lost evening
freedom.

Sixteen-hour anxiety,
cause I almost O.D.
on carbonated caffeine,
as the sugar and acid
eat away
causing
painful tooth decay.

Make it home and hope to
get enough sleep to
make it through
my next shift.

Unload those greasy clothes
onto my bathroom floor
before I change into
my holy t-shirt and
ripped up shorts.
Don’t even make it to the shower
cause I am out in less than
a quarter of an hour
after I enter the front door.

In again, wash, and repeat,
I know this isn’t me.
I could do so much more.

Boss yells get your times down!
Fix this order!
Stop lounging,
if you got time to lean,
ya got time to clean.”

My co-workers only see
another cog
in the fast-food machine.
Even when I’m not clowning,
I am still a joke to them.

So, tired but it’s not just
sleep that I need.
So, burnt out that
I just want to up and leave,
but I’m twenty-three
and it won’t be
till I am twenty-eight
that I get free,
running off to another city
to get a higher degree
and escape this restaurant
barely get paid
minimum wage
nightmare.