I love the way a person can be spotted from the other side of the room without even trying.
It's like the earth breathing, wind beating against my windows as it's sighing.
They're just as all other things are,
outstanding without ever really standing out.
Yet they do.
Somehow they just caught your eye, and drew you in.
Like the stars in the nighttime blue, one standing out more than the other even if they all look exactly the same.
Since when did the pavement of dust and dirt decide to be walked upon?
Without, what would support?
That's the thing, it didn't, it couldn't.
It just is.
Just like they didn't choose to stand out, but they did.
Just like you don't feel like anyone sees you, or that anyone cares to admire you delicate face.
You are inspiring to someone without ever lifting a single finger,
and that can't be too bad honestly.
All you do is exist, and you mean the world to someone.
You complement everything without ever deciding to accessorize anything, and I guess that's just the way things are.

(j.a.r.)

On some days, the sky is greyier as if it is shaded in by a 6B pencil.

Black as charcoal with a very shaky weak wrist.

Everything that passes through chapped & soured bitten-back lips tastes like weak tea.

(I think sugar cubes were all eaten.)

Oh, your head hurts, aches, like bad bruises from hitting the sharp edge of the table.
Cotton bandages and one light kiss above the left eyebrow helps.

And your chest is too tight, the kind of feeling from shoelaces knotted hard against your ankles.

*Use safety scissors.

No one ever wants to read a poem other than one about love.
They’re only interested in thoughts from another that might just be about them.
I mean it’s pleasant if you happen to read a poem that relates to you, but don’t just click copy, save, or reblog.
Someone put their heart in to that poem; they shed tears and carved crevasses into their undoubting mind that everything is worth it.
They found their worth.
Some through words of love and transgression, and others through words of doubt, vexation, and sorrow.
They’ve been able to overcome themselves, and now it’s your turn to take the wheel.
Understand the words you want to say about the grass dancing in the wind, find the comparisons between yourself and the sun, and reach for the top of the clouds with the courage
of a self-spoken soul.
Not everything has to be about love, people just make it out to be.

(j.a.r.)

My sorrow has nourished these lands,
where I've sown
the tears of your remains.
It will continue until
the last gasp of air escapes my lungs
in a tomorrow far away.
The dense fog of despair will clear after the winds
carry me to you.
Then, sunlight shall pour through the clouds
and fill the fields
with a splendor that won't be observed
by people who are too busy
living with their minds closed off
and eyelids crusted shut.
In death, they shall join us as limbo roses, wild daisies,
Queen Anne's Lace, living on
in forgotten memories, vibrations, and colors only seen
through the cones of bee eyes.
One day, the glaciers will melt, and humans
will become mere fables
whispered about in the ballads of tidal waves
that eat away at the dust
from the haunted world of yesterday.
Not long from then,
the sun will engulf us, and we shall join the constellations
of a far off planet.
Galaxies will collide, and we'll become lost
between the cross stitches
of unnamed dimensions when time no longer ticks.
Eternity won't remember
our names, but it will have breathed them
for just a moment.