The form and nature,
Of a person,
Or something associated with them,
A very peculiar notion,
Distinguished from other beings,
With kind feelings and mild dispositions,
Sympathy and benevolence,
Politeness as well,
Learning and concerned,
Reflections and opinions,
Meditations of oneself,
Principles and considerations,
Engrossed in truth,
We trifle,
Without knowledge of meaning,
In an all too abrupt life.

Having stems and branches,
Like thoughts and philosophy,
Growing and taking root,
Harboring life of all sorts,
Insect and bird,
Marsupial and primate,
So many others to name,
We climb them as children,
Play-houses with signs,
That say 'keep girls out',
Poets speak of them,
With admiration and awe,
We chop them down,
For fire and heat and cooking our fare,
We build houses from them instead of within,
We sit on their stumps,
And invoke memories of days we climbed,
And the poets write beautifully about them,
Upon their skins.

Translucent,
Clearly visible,
That which lies within,
Malleable when heated to extreme,
By passion or regret,
Accepting the arrangements,
And shape and form,
Of that which afflicts and guides it,
Made ornate with,
Precious events and horrific realities,
It slowly becomes opaque,
No longer allowing light to pass,
Reflecting instead,
What was inside,
Now dead,
Hardened and brittle,
So easily shattered,
Shards and fragments,
like razors,
make unwanted openings,
To a great depth,
Into the soul,
Of the one who possesses such a frail and perishable,
Glass heart.

Brought to me by you,
Was the word 'love',
Brought to you by me was 'Love is not enough',
You approached me with 'respect',
Then 'adoration',
Then a lot of other words.
Then gestures.
Then things I don't even wanna think about,
All to make my weakened mind and heart,
Yours,

If Michaelangelo,
Were alive today,
He would sculpt your svelte and lithe figure,
Into the finest Italian marble,
Marble that would last for ten thousand years,
So all men, from this day forward,
Would have the opportunity,
To perceive and envision,
That which only,
He and God could create.
She laughed at me,
Again.

So many guideposts,
Unseen.
Unrecognized.
Like faces on a bus, kinda blended into a background,
Where being a face-in-the-crowd,
Was a good thing,
Anonymous really,
Just someone else,
Not me.
Me, being an identity,
A separate and identifiable entity,
I cannot blend in,
I am known.

I draw on a place,
That is within me,
twisting and turning,
Vast crevices abound,
An emptiness exist here,
Like deep caverns,
echoing aloneness,
I search for meaning inside me,
I search for meaning outside as well,
Purpose, I suppose, is what I make of it,
Hell too.