There songs of silence,
enthral eyes with their words,
                                    Their  beauty sings,
And your eyes do shed a tear
for it is the song unique
                                     to each flutter,
to each sight that you behold.

The butterfly does speak to you,
but only your eyes can hear
                            the words of the song.

I think I loved you most the winter your heating was broken
And we’d stay inside all morning
Pretending to complain that we couldn’t get out of bed
Our clothes becoming little islands on the floor,
Ones that we could not quite find the courage to visit

Your hand stayed glued to my hip,
Your breath warming my shoulder
Like a long drag of whiskey
That kind that had a home so far away,
In a glass bottle on top of your refrigerator.
The one that would not be opened
Until that fateful day in February,
When everything went wrong

And on that unbearable night
When you joked that you’d freeze to death if I left you
There was a long silence
Like it might be true.

Now it’s warm enough
That I show too much skin when sitting in bars
And you avoid me like the plague,
Whispering in any girl’s ear that’s near to you
Every time you see me watching out of the corner of your eye

We should have stayed inside when the ice began to melt
Because I think
When those doors opened and we finally ventured outside
The world had changed,
And so had you and I.

We all at times look back at the past to define us
Unconsciously becoming an ever-distant memory
Revived by the constant search for an identity

But what about now?

Where would I really find myself
When I'm constantly hoping to become
And repetatively remembering that I have become?

I'm a human being
Not a human been
Nor a human will be.

I've stopped looking because I am. - Now
and I remember this - Now.
So just BE - Now.

how strange
the gift of contemplation
to allow the mind to wander
creating imaginary worlds
in our skulls
the ability to ponder
what meaning, if any
there is(n't)
in our fleeting days
we trivialize time
as a linear tool
by which we measure
our triumphs, losses
all the same
in the grand scheme
how strange
my arms and legs
moving, making
running in circles
to survive
but there's momentary bliss
in the recollection
of a beautiful day
with someone I loved
long ago
the clock stops
as does the pain
of existing within
such looming madness

“I wouldn't expect you to know beauty."
Beauty isn't ten pounds of make up, long hair, and thigh gaps
Beauty isn't the biggest ***** or **** you can find
Beauty isn't always short and petite

Beauty is her personality
It's her laugh, it's her smile
It's her ability to make you laugh for miles
It's her hugs that make your heart beat fast
And blushing madly when she grabs your ***
It's the way she loves and lives off of fun and enjoyment
It's the way she holds you during sleep over nights

She may be beautiful on the outside, but that doesn't compare to what I know is on the inside

Neath the shy January sun
she turns a butterfly
upon the marigold field

Flies now wildly far
amid the yellow and red flower
beyond the bounds of the catcher
in the madness of a child’s dream fulfilled
leaving wind scattered trails of her wings
over the marigold field!

When I was younger, I used to run away from home and hide in somebody’s garden and hide there for hours and hours but it was only five minutes and I would go home and nobody would notice I had run away.