Every child breathes the air breathed by ancestors fallen and predecessors to come
       All women inhale the scent of all women,
                                     and men to that of men-
Lovers swallow the air of past lovers, trying to emulate its libidinous odor.
             We share the air that was breathed by our atavistic ancestral reptiles,
and,
                          in this way,
     all beings are interlinked-
that my exhale spreads forth into the atmosphere to determine your inhale,
and thus is the way of our actions, too.

You were the flame. The flame that warmed a home to burn a village.
Tell me, flame,  with what water am I to put you out,
The same water that the sun took away from this house?

I came close to sight of a place once called Home.
I know in the crevices, our hearts beat together.
    In the grass where we rolled,
    in the trees where we climbed,
    on the roads that we walked,
            and, once, made art upon,
    in the water we ran through,
        and swam in,
             and, once, dunked each other into, and, once, poured over each other,
    on the coach where we laid,
        whispering solacing words to keep ourselves refreshed,
    In the kitchen where you worked hard to accomplish and I worked hard to distract,
    on the floor where we rested at the edge of a day,
    In the snow which we absorbed through cotton clothing and malleable minds,
    Through the flowers where we ran, skipped, and took a few resplendent bluets or chaste anemones,
   Yes - Even under the blankets where our love echoed
                                                the sheets and reverberated back to
            ourselves in a transient moment,
    By the fire we would build before a cool summer night (which we then gazed at the heavens above)
        but, under the clouds we watched and the stars we mapped.
In these crevices our hearts beat.
That is why, as you can see, our hearts beat poorly now:
        They still beat in all of those crevices.
And as I got closer and closer to approaching your house, sitting next to a driver who looked upon me realizing (but probably not understanding why) that I was in a mental breakdown,
and I whispered love words to you through a foggy glass window,
A panic knocked the air from my lungs and a fear knocked me flat on my back,
        -until, that is, we turned opposing roads and retreated back,
                    my tail beneath my leg.
And now that my chance is gone, I long to see home again.
So, and it is, so my heart can feel at ease and rest once more.
        My dearest desire, my rambunctious "Fish"
                    (If you recall that story)
Does your heart still beat alongside mine?
    Are the tears that stain your face, dripping onto the floor, forming just as quick as mine?
           Are the hours passing as slowly for you as for me?

Do you miss home?

A mass of bodies dance together,
interlocked between simple beats of an apparatus,
hands raised, jumping up and down,
in a state unity.
Strangers, who are generally frowned upon,
with absolute peace amongst themselves,
led by a man on the stage before them,
full of his own insecurities,
and the fellows below him,
with their own,
but nobody judges, hates, or discriminates,
because the moment the man on the stage produces a single beat,
a mass of bodies dance together.

Tragedy, however terrible,
has a very queer way-
It makes you stronger or weaker,
but it can never keep you the same.

I look into her gaze, when she makes the statement,
“We  should date. What do you think?”

“What do I think?” I say.
“I think you should save your breath, and your heart.
I’ll be your next mistake.
I’ll be the next pain you feel.
I’ll be the next tears you shed.
I’ll be the ghost you’ll spend a lifetime trying to escape.
I’ll be the person you adore the most, and want to rip apart.
I’ll be the next nightmare you have.
I’ll be the next constant trouble you can’t get off your back.
I’ll be everything that you don’t need.
If I could gather up all of the people I have met and who haven’t hated me,
I could fit them all into a bathtub,
And fill it up with the tears others have shed because of me.
You’re bound to suffer, because you can never love me.
Or understand me.
Just like everybody else.
And it’s because I’m different.
Because I’m strange. Weird. Eccentric.
You’ll never love me; just the version of me you wish I was.
And the moment you realize who I am,
You’ll be so disgusted with me you’ll lift your bags and walk out of the door to the house that is my life.”

She says to me,
“You never asked me what I think.
I think you’re lovely.
A diamond in the rough.
A gem I’ll wear on my chest, proudly.
I’ll drain your bathtub and dry you off, because it’s what you deserve.
And when life pushes you down,
Turn to me, because I’ll always have an outstretched hand for you.
I’ll make my heart beats synchronize with yours,
Just so you will always know that somebody shares something with you.
Even if God himself turns you away,
I’ll say that heaven doesn’t deserve us.
When nobody else understands who you are,
Realize that I do.
I’ll learn everything.
I’ll learn the way you sleep, the way you breath, the way you drink, the way you think, the way you exist.
I get you. Who you are. Who you want to be.
I’m fit for you, and you, for me.”

My heart beats with bliss,
And I smile with an excitement that couldn’t even be touched by mere words.
I turn my head to respond, but she’s gone.
The figment of my imagination has died out again,
And I’m left alone in this dark room,
With only a few words written on paper in an attempt to make myself not feel as empty as I truly am.

Creation is beautiful;
To see something being created is beautiful.
Seeing an idea take flight.

When a poet grabs a pen, and speaks in words of ink
and lets her mind open and flow in a rhythm of expression
She detaches a section of her soul
     and lays it on a piece of parchment
     with the hopes that somebody else can pick it up
     and attach it with their souls, instead.

When a songwriter forms lyrics to let an audience ingest the world through his eyes
and he pairs up with a musician, tapping away keys at the piano
that would send chills down the spine of the most heartless human,,
and the two form stories of sound and lyrics
that ripple through crowds like the detonation
     over the sky of Hiroshima.

When the lonely author writes his sad stories,
Filled with the triumphs he wishes he owned,
he feels the need to fill the paper with more,
because he is in love with creating.
He wants to do more. He wants to be more.
He always feels his actions will never fill the space it should,
     and a vacuum will encompass all of his papers,
     and even his heart,
     so he can never fill either of them as desperately as he wants
but he creates with the hope that somebody can relate.

Even when a boy and a girl hold hands,
or when they hold each other, together, in attraction
     with the pains of the world numbed by the drug of the heart,
     crossing their fingers that they will always get a refill of their prescriptions,
And their silence says more than any words could.
One smiles, and the second can't resist,
     and the creation here is love,
the best,
           and frailest,
creation of all.

As for me: I see creation as a challenge as well.
To push yourself to be something else and make something else.
To inspire, to encourage,
to be beautiful, even if nobody is facing you.
To know that when you die, death won't take you entirely,
     with the words on paper,
     paintings on the wall,
     or kisses that you gave,
you will continue to exist. You can never fully die.
Creation is the key to immortality,
but creation isn't about living forever,
it's about allowing others to see who you really are,
and who they can be.

Creation is telling stories and lessons to others,
Creation is sharing,
Creation is helping.

Creation is beautiful.