people who have the gift of sight are thankful for it, but are not kneeling down on ****** knees thanking God for such a beautiful gift of sight
if there was a way that i could thank God enough for sight, i want to know what it is.
i am beginning to appreciate all my senses but especially sight throughout these past three months
you may question what has happened
what did i see
what did i sense
what did i perceive
and i will tell you
but words cannot fully confess the magnitude
of beauty and love that i have discovered
when we sit down to think, we remember that the adjectives and words we use for emotions were created thousands of years ago and used to generalize feelings, and if i say i'm in love, you will never know what that means, because all humans love differently.
but i believe i have discovered my definitions of love and beauty, and they all pertain to you.
i never thought i would use the word beautiful to describe a boy, but that was the only way i could describe you, no other word matches up to what i think when i see you.
my eyes cannot drift away from the beauty of who you are, and while sitting there with movies on the screen i can't focus on because you're next to me, every moment i look at you i think to myself, i have found beauty.
i always questioned myself to what beauty was, what could beauty be defined as, where beauty can and cannot be found
and looking at you i am reminded of what it is
because you are pure raw beauty
a human who inside and outside is natural and real
who is effortlessly pretty, in every angle, emotion, or light.

vibrations echo inside my skin
prolonged tingles of worry along a bent back, i cradle myself to create warmth
eyes become redder than ever before, not under the influence of any substance
its more like the lack of someone which causes the redness
thoughts slither back and forth like ringworm chewing up my brain
coldness seeps throughout my body

the fear of being without the boy
the boy who fed her joy by the spoonful
the boy with veins that intertwined with graceful love and care that pumped with every heartbeat
the boy who made her believe that there was a possibility, a possibility to endless sunsets and sunrises
the boy who looked at her like she looked out for the sunrise, anxiously waiting at the windowsill for the colors that would never get old and whose beauty would never fade
the boy who she hoped would never fade away like the sunrise did

blood boiling
causes chills along my back
hairs rise along lanky arms
skin pale, eyes swollen and red
eyebrows furrowed, permanent expressions of hate and anger create wrinkles matching the set dad has
he's blind to the fact he's creating them on his little girl
pain is associated with the secretion of substance P, and is relieved by the secretion of endorphins
anger is associated to the spewing of your words and the sternness of authoritarian disciplines, and is relieved in a year, with college dorms and distance of 453 miles
or relieved in an instant by running away

it became frigid quickly, like aluminum street lights at negative temperatures
the cold seeps in throughout marrow, chilling bones and freezing thoughts.
i knew it was winter again and leaves were almost completely gone from the tree branches, each crunching words of remorse as they were stepped on once again.
she was confused, confused between psychedelic highs of happiness and freezing aluminum street lights who froze her fingertips when she touched them.
she asked herself why winter came now, when she had found the sunshine of her life, seeping through her for moments at a time.

you told me fear was an illusion made by the devil
to impair our lives and blur our vision
now all i see are flames of fear and my body is burning in temperatures of hell.
i never thought i would use the topic of drowning in a poem
i would always complain about the girls who wrote they were drowning in depression
when their serotonin levels were doing just fine
or the girls who said someone drowned them after breaking the lifeboat of love,
when they can pick themselves up if they use their muscles
but you are the reason i am drowning for the first time,
the cliche, stupid, senseless drowning topic,
you are drowning me in security and structure and formality
i am asphyxiating with security up to my throat, almost vomiting up words of rebellion because of constant confinement
i would rather drown in the ocean because i know there are treasures and unmet species, no restrictions.
i would fill my lungs with the mistakes you don't want me to make because it would give me substance
i would refuse to cough them up just so i could stay underwater without you shoving your beliefs down my throat
you are drowning me in repeating stories about mistakes that are not even mine, you are drowning me with rules, brain washing my mind.
you are stuffing stereotypes into my ears, talking about races, outer images and superficiality.
yes i know genesis and revelation, yes i know matthew, mark, luke and john, maybe you forgot how Luke wrote we shouldn't judge,
and i don't know if you remember how often you **** plants by over watering them.
i told you those plants were teenagers, they had to be left alone, you're drowning everything around you while getting water in your brain too, you're forgetting what its like to float,
probably because you never learned how to properly since you were a little girl
please don't drown me any longer
i don't want to drown people too

mom was always self conscious about her veins
she veiled them with pants in eighty degree weather, constantly looking for cures for varicose and spider veins and always asked me if she looked bad
mom never looked bad, not even mediocre. she was mom.
mom shone through with a holy radiance of giving, i knew that when she got to heaven (even if heaven was never real god would make a heaven just for her) she would be blessed and her veins would be erased.
i would write her a letter telling her how her veins were art on her legs with colors that were abstract for the human body
i would tell her i love the paintings on her legs because they reminded me of all she did for decades, tiring her feet, never sitting down, giving her self up for half hearted people.
i would tell her stories that her veins were paintings made by God to show her how unique she was, and he formed murals for her that would never go away, with lilac, violet and green paints that stained his fingers
i would remind her maps and magnificent cities had veins of their own, they were the roads and tunnels that people traveled on to find their destination.
my hope for her is that she remembers her flaws are art that don't have to be hidden in a museum

“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.”
-Pablo Neruda

not in love, not in like, not in infatuation. just waiting for the same feeling Neruda had.