dating a writer
is like guessing the weather.
you think you know what you'll get,
but you never do.

you never know
because

she'll create a hero
from your weaknesses

and she'll write a great character,
from every last flaw.

she'll create a thousand plots  
from your worst nightmares.

she'll take every last thing you hate
and create something you'll love.

she'll turn your anger
into confessions of adoration,

and she'll make you,
everything you're not.

but worst of all,
she'll leave you wondering-
is it you she's in love with,
or things she's created from you?

but here's the beauty of it:

if you date a writer,
you'll never die.

my fingers have become bored with
the quicksand of routine
they prefer to dance erotically over my typewriter
frolicking like naked ballerinas
over an ancient stage
spilling their secret thoughts
onto blank page,
after their day job
threaded together
over my lap,
or bending over to
reveal the contents
of my burlap sack

they have taken instead
to jumping over cracks
in the nothing of night
stifling the sound of silence
with assortments of clicks and clacks
punching in the perfect pitch of keys
to leave Beethoven blind
from this symphony of notes combined

and just like that at last
they have unfolded some rhyme
unachievable with ink and pencil,
without the stencil of time
dictating to work inside the lines

"And this is the only place where I can post something without people I know seeing it."

I was unhappy once, but I've grown. I like to think that I'm happy now.
I'm still here, and I'm still smiling and laughing.
And I think I'm falling inlove and not just with myself but with someone else.

And everything seems to be alright, but I can't help but sometimes feel a little numb....

Am I manifesting on the past?
Or am I reflecting?  

I'm embracing the beauty within everything.
And negativity is irrelevant.

But the balance...I can't help but think I'm off.

I feel like I'm a highly misunderstood person,
Merely because I choose to isolate myself.

Isolation is good.

There is a very fine line between being unhappy and being lonely.

I guess I'm not either, I'm just craving for something that is bigger than myself.

I use to write alot when I was depressed, I guess the idea of putting my thoughts on paper made my sadness feel so much more real. At the time I liked it, I liked the feeling of being fragile. It made me feel vulnerable. But I started distancing myself from it. I didn't want to live in darkness any more. My happiness grew and I nurtured it as one would do taking care of a rose grown from a seed planted in your most needed time. My perspective of life changed, it was like I was reborn into the spiritual realm and my life was but a seedling sprouting from ashes. I looked to the sun for unconditional love and I found it in the flames of a thousand skies.I reached out towards it in the hopes of finding the answers that I needed,I loved ever moment of it even though I was burning on the way. In a sense you could say I burnt myself down but only so that I could rise again. I had the opportunity to mold myself and I choose to become the closest living embodiment of mother nature herself,  I haven't fully achieved that yet but I was created in the belly of a star and my veins run with blood infused with star dust. I am a magical being or atleast I'd like to think that I am, I don't want to be anything less, than a women whom someone could never forget.

I have realised today that majority of people seem like empty shells washed up upon the shore.
Maybe I say this because I just watched them from a distance,
But they all seem either meaningless or uncertain.
Uncertain of their existence.
It's like they are simply just floating on the current of the sea,
Not trying to swim out of the tide.
Perhaps they like the feeling of comfort,
Knowing that eventually the water will push them onto the sand.
Why not explore the depths of the water?  
Why have shallow living when you where meant to expirence the joys and the hurt of this world?
Maybe they are afraid of feeling isolated, all alone in the big empty sea.
They allow themselves to be blue rafts on blue water, they want to blend in.
Don't they understand the importance of solo adventures?
Of discovering abandon ships that remind them of themselves?
Why be an empty shell buried under sand when you could be flooded by the beauty of the world?