I paint trees
With hopes that I be lifted
Entwined in branches
Held tight

Uplifted

Those vines told me stories
of love and war
Age old tales
Giving me more

Life

I greet my reflection in a puddle,
I stare down from so high.

Who am I?

I don't wish for you, it would not be fair.
I don't wish for us to fall in love, you might not want that.
I don't wish for my own happiness, that would be vain.

I wish that I could write beautiful poems for you.
I wish that you would cry after reading them.
I wish that you would keep them folded up in your back pocket.

I don't wish that you will be happy forever, where would that leave me.
I don't wish for all the money in the world, I could not buy talent.
I don't wish for a cure for cancer, there would still be death.

I wish that I could make you happy when it's raining.
I wish that money would cease to exist solving a pretty amount of problems.
I wish for a cure for life.

She makes the sand,
the sand seep away.
Little locket on her chest,
with her steps a gentle sway.
Though her eyes cast
a tender gaze,
her fiery heart sets the sky ablaze.

Dry rain and dry puddles,
never will she stop.
'Til she stumbles to her knees,
the dusty ground, fiercely hot.
She cries out in pain
and laughs through tears,
a withered smile
of withered years.

She sees me.

Her faces relaxes,
her lungs give out,
her limbs betray her
and with one final strain she says:
*I can't hate.

I've never seen the sunrise as beautiful as the one I watched rise over you.
You had fallen asleep.
You had told me to wake you up if you did, you really wanted to see it.
But you're just so **** cute when you sleep.
The suns first rays shown through your golden hair, refracting the light into a beautiful spectrum of colors.
I leaned back on our blankets and sat up. Criss cross apple sauce, I took a pack of Luckies from my coat pocket. We had smooshed them at some point in our late night adventures but they were still intact.
With a unlit cigarette in between my lips which had grown so accustumed to kissing yours I looked at you. You were lying on your side, facing me with your back to the sun. The dew on the grass was surrounding our mound of blankets much like heart break had been circling our love; Threatening to precede but not truly troublesome.

I've begun to question the very purpose of my existence.
Which is really just a fancy way of saying ''I've been reading too much Albert Camus.''

The only way to enjoy one's life is to accept the Absurd.
To accept that life has no meaning except for the meaning I give it.
No purpose other than the purpose I wish it to have.  
Belief in God is absurd because there is no way to verify his existence.
Belief in the absence of God is absurd because there is no way to verify it.
Trying to believe anything spiritually is absurd because spirits are not science and anything that is not science cannot be verified and is therefore absurd.
Life is absurd.
The purpose of life is reproduction, survival.
Or so it has been verified by science.
Spiritually though, there is no purpose because everything is a purpose.

And, best of all
                 neither you
                        nor I
        have the slightest
    desire to move

Love is what I feel in each breath, in the
synchronization,
                and in the punctuated stillness
     like sun through blanketing clouds

I wish you'd understand how
deep this truth runs

maybe then you'd open your
heart